Chains
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: AU. Yohji steals Aya away from his life of slavery, but can he be freed from the chains that bind him? Eventual Yohji/Aya with a bit of Crawford/Aya and Schuldig/Aya.
1. Bind Me

Disclaimer: I do not own the Weiss boys…and this fic is why.

Excessive Notes from the Miko: Well, the Evil Hentai Slug brought me a collar, then he brought be a naked Aya . . . This is my first full-fledged AU fic in years (thought it's based very heavily on WK's plot and fits in that world with minor adjustments), so please bear with me as I get situated, expect multiple revisions, and feel free to offer criticism! All characters can be assumed to look like they do in the original series unless stated otherwise. Also, a note on the process, I'm jumping right in and producing chapters without obsessing over wording (well, too much) or on ultimate goals as far as story; this means shorter, less intricately phrased, plot-driven chapters which are posted at a much greater frequency than my normal pace.

Warnings for overall fic (subject to change, especially addition): yaoi (detailed descriptions of male/male sexual acts), language, angst, AU, fetish, BDSM, non-con, violence, drugs, minor/ shouta (sort of), OOC, and the occasional bout of romance.

I'll try to give specific warnings where they are necessary, but please read with full knowledge, caution, and an open mind. It sounds worse than it is, I assure you, though I hope to live up to my warnings!

Pairings (subject to change or addition): Yohji/Aya(Ran), Schuldig/Aya(Ran), Crawford/Aya(Ran)

Key:

_direct thoughts_

//telepathy//

* * *

Title: Our Chains

Chapter One: Bind Me

* * *

"I know you were raised, shall we say, above this sort of thing, Ran, but it's really your only choice." The man turned his back on the large picture windows, and the sunset burned bright orange behind him as he stared at the boy. He really was a pretty thing, made too thin by recent events, but beautiful nonetheless. Crawford made a quick motion with his hand, and Schuldig stepped forward.

The boy, silent and stoic in his disgrace, continued to stare ahead. His clothes were tattered and dirty, unchanged since the accident, and dried blood proved an unappealing accent crusted across his white t-shirt though the bandages wound around his head seemed to have finally staunched the fresh flow. Even in this state, he looked like some kind of fallen seraphim or perhaps a demon on furlough from hell, awash in the orange light which set his red hair ablaze and made his eyes bright in their exquisite sadness.

Crawford almost resented the satisfied turn of Schuldig's mouth, knowing he was savoring that grief firsthand.

"Give it to him," Crawford ordered.

The leather ring swung several times around Schuldig's finger before he held it out in front of Ran, just a few inches out of reach, forcing him to step forward if he wanted to take it. The boy didn't move.

"Don't you want your pretty gift?" Schuldig asked, shaking it like a toy before a puppy, or a kitten. Crawford resisted the urge to roll his eyes when he hit upon the German's intent. Normally Schuldig's trivial antics didn't faze him, but it seemed almost unfair to torment this one. "Com'mon, a pretty collar for a pretty kätzchen."

Angry amethyst eyes flicked to the collar, then back to Crawford.

"Take it, Ran."

He took one stiff step forward, reached out a hand, and took the collar between his fingers, obviously expecting Schuldig to pull it away the entire time. The man just smiled.

"Put it on," Crawford continued his patient directions.

Ran spent a moment staring at the heavy leather thing, with its large buckle in the back and suggestive silver ring in the front. Crawford thought he would object, maybe fling it across the room in a fit of passion; perhaps he would cry. But he didn't, and Crawford was impressed by cool manner with which he buckled the collar around his pale neck.

"Kneel."

"No." His voice was calm, but his shoulders shook with anger.

"Ran, please remember this is for your own good. We must place you somewhere you will be safe. And you can hardly expect us to completely cover the medical bills, let alone the debts, that you have and will accrue. We have done quite a lot for you already. Kneel."

The boy got slowly to his knees on the plush carpet. He looked small, legs tucked neatly beneath him there on the floor, and out of place in the spacious office as he waited for fate to be leveled at him. Approaching, Crawford observed him intently; the eyes were still full of defiance, and it wouldn't do.

Reaching down, he grabbed Ran's chin hard enough to bruise, tipping his head painfully backwards.

"Listen well, Ran. You will do as I say, and you will follow each and every rule I lay out for you. When you are bought, you will be meek and you will be submissive. You will fetch your owner the morning paper and sit patiently by his feet. In fact, you will be the ideal slave. Because, should you fail, I will not hesitate to kill her. Do you understand?"

"Yes," it was a harsh whisper as he struggled for air against the unnatural tip his head was forced into.

Crawford let him go with a shove, "That hardly sounds convincing. Schuldig, take him."

He turned away but still heard the German's glee, "Come on, kätzchen, we're gonna trim your claws."

~tbc~

Notes: Remember, the Evil Hentai Slug feeds on review cookies, and the more cookies he gets, the happier he is and the longer he lets me borrow the naked Aya and the faster you get chapters! So, please to feed the slug!


	2. Break Me

Notes: I've never written more than a fight scene with Schuldig before, but I've recently fallen in like with the unfortunate German (but not paired with Aya's Yohji, that's a no-no). Anyway, here's to evil bishounen!

Chapter warnings: NCS (non-consensual sex, not graphic), violence (some might consider it graphic, I don't really think so, but be warned)

* * *

Chapter Two: Break Me

* * *

//That's enough,// Schuldig said, but the other man didn't stop.

It forced him to repeat himself out loud, instantly disliking the grating aggravation in his voice. "Back off," he growled.

And when there was still no response, "GET THE HELL AWAY FROM HIM!"

Farfarello looked up as if noticing his presence for the first time; his head tilted to the side in thought, the knife in his hand still moving. Then, with slow deliberation, he withdrew the thin blade from the jagged red path it was tracing between Ran's shoulder blades as he watched fresh, bright blood run down the smeared skin.

"You're going to scar him," Schuldig warned. As he pushed himself off the wall, Farfarello retreated from the boy, tossing himself into one of the dark corners to lick at the flat of the blade, finding it pleasantly warm.

The boy was still conscious, Schuldig noted as he crouched beside the bruised form, slightly appalled by the way his shoes slipped in the dark puddle of blood and less delicate gore that had been forced from Ran's body. The boy laid in the mess, naked save the collar, hands tied at a painful angle behind his back and his ankles bound with thick, black cord. His skin might have looked warmer in the dim light of the single incandescent bulb, but it was broken and dirty. Even his hair seemed to have lost its fire, unwashed and dried stiff with blood. But when Schuldig grabbed it and hefted him up into a sitting position, the strange eyes opened, and he felt not fear but rage.

//Das ist gut, kätzchen. I like that.//

When he dropped his hair, Ran fell to the floor like a fleshy sack of potatoes and didn't move.

"You're so messy," Schuldig turned up his nose as he stood over the bleeding body. "Ah, well, I suppose I'll have to clean you up before I return you."

~*~

"Lie still, for her sake."

"Bastard."

"No, Ran," Crawford shook his head as his fingers roughly probed the virgin body, "you must call me Master."

He had thought the boy would scream, but he didn't.

~*~

Schuldig peeled away the stiff sheets, unconsciously grimacing when he had to yank them loose in places where various dried fluids stuck them to the skin of the unconscious Ran. Really, he wasn't a fucking maid. He did this only because Crawford promised him ample time later to play with the new toy as he saw fit. The German didn't care to take him like this, to leave the yuck and the bruises; no, emotional contusions were much more satisfying.

~*~

"You've found a buyer?"

"Obviously."

"Where is Ran?"

A little smile, "In your room, of course."

"He hasn't tried to leave this time?"

"No."

"Good. Dress him and take him to Joji's. I will meet you there."

~*~

Farfarello was lurking outside the door to Crawford's private rooms. He paused in his idle carving of the plaster to stare at Schuldig.

"Is the kitty leaving?"

"Yes."

"Can I say goodbye?"

"Crawford wants him clean for the auction."

"Pity," he inhaled deeply as he rolled his golden eye towards the ceiling, "he bleeds so nicely."

Ignoring the mix of memory and imagination rolling off the scarred man, Schuldig sauntered into the rooms to seek his prey. He half expected to find him somewhere new. They'd exhausted quite a few creative possibilities, and while he might cast about and read the other, it was too much fun finding Ran's hiding spots. At first he'd made a few escape attempts, gained the hallway once by crouching behind the door and attempting to strangle Schuldig with the collar. That had been fun.

The last few weeks, though, it hadn't been so challenging, but Schuldig had hopes for his pet who so often toyed with rebellious thoughts. It had been almost painful to see so many of these checked by Crawford's increased conditioning. If not for the leverage against him, Schuldig had no doubts the boy would have been more virulent in his resistance. It would have made the victory more sweet, but Crawford had other ideas.

"Fucking visions," the man complained as he leaned to peek under the table.

His fostered hopes of a last spirited tussle made it disappointing to find Ran huddled in the corner of the bedroom, wedged between the oak nightstand and the wall. He'd made some attempt to hide his privates with one of Crawford's white, cotton sheets, dragging it ineffectually over his lap before drawing his knees to his chest.

The collar looked especially dark against skin that was too pale. While the mental pressures had multiplied, Crawford had been physically careful in the last three weeks, and even Farf had been forced to back off so that the bruises were beginning to clear and the shallow scrapes beginning to scab over. He probably wouldn't have any noticeable scares in a few months, well, besides the ones.

Schuldig crouched in front of the boy, reaching out a hand. The eyes didn't open in challenge; he flinched away instead.

//Bath time.//

He waited.

//No threat today? No warning to get out of your pretty head?//

Nothing but a faint trembling.

//Ah, so we have broken you? I suppose it was foolish of me to think our games would last, but these months have been so much fun,// he sighed as he idly stroked one naked thigh. //I suppose you will call me Master now?//

"No," it was a weak whisper slipped between dry lips as his head fell back against the wall.

~tbc~

Notes: Is everyone bored already, or shall we continue?


	3. Bring Me

Notes: I feel like this chapter is a bit perfunctory, but it gets us where we're going.

* * *

Chapter Three: Bring Me

* * *

The blue light of the television cast stark shadows in the dim room. They watched attentively as pictures flashed across the screen, a visual trail of victims, first those that had been, then those that would be.

Of the latter, Weiss would be the agent.

"Your target is Kaimo Takashi, owner of the nightclub Marked. His business forms a key link in the Tsumetsu slave ring by acquiring victims and serving as a point of sale. Kaimo is personally responsible for a series of violent murders of socially affluent slave owners as well as an unknown number of enslaved victims. Knight Hunters, deny these black beasts their tomorrows."

The television flicked off and fluorescent light flooded the room. Yohji blinked against its sudden invasion, dropping his sunglasses over his eyes. Draped over his chair backwards, he turned to Manx as she stood by the television, mission folder in hand. About to requisition further information, he was beat to it by Omi.

"Manx-san, is that all we have?"

"No. The file is rather extensive, and I'll leave it with you. But, there are several crucial points to cover."

Her voice never faltered as she stood before them in her perfect, short skirt. There were no references to notes; she simply crossed her arms under her breasts and gave them the details, like always.

"We initially became involved with Kaimo because of his unusual popularity among slave owners and his unique ability to make such transactions in such an open forum. The demand of his 'product' seems to be based on the diverse selection which is a result of illegal attainment. The slaves auctioned at Marked are involuntarily culled from society through blackmail, coercion, or direct force. Evidence suggests many of them may be mental patients, prostitutes, even orphans."

"Sick," Ken whispered, shaking his head at the thought of some guy raiding an orphanage for human merchandise.

"As you know, there are few chances for these people once purchased. However, they probably fair better than those admitted to Kaimo's personal collection. With these he is excessively violent. Recently, his tendencies have expanded. There have been fourteen disappearances, an odd mix of male and female socialites. Ten bodies have been recovered, quite mutilated. These are not slaves, but rather wealthy owners who frequent Marked."

"So that's how we're going in."

"Yes."

~*~

Marked made Yohji self-conscious in ways even the seediest brothels couldn't. It was a strange mix of socialite function, night club, and auction block, a posh location with an unsettling sense of uncivilized commerce. There was a token separation of functions; the club's main level held the common bar and dance floor, full of smoke and lights and heavy music, while the restricted upper level was dedicated to the more questionable pleasures of expensive drugs and expensive slaves. These were brought, each Saturday night, to the raised stage, announced, described, and examined by the elite customers.

Not everyone could go upstairs, though a casual surveyor wouldn't guess the security was tight as Yohji brushed past the guard in the stairwell. His access had been earned in just a week as he first took the stairs on the arm of the wife of a millionaire. She had invited him to her bed, and who was he to say no to a twenty-eight year old beauty just because her last name matched that of an eighty year old man? His performance had been more than pleasing, and the upper level became his domain.

Arriving at the top of the steps, Yohji smoothed the lapels of his navy suit, a trim Baroni, fitted at the waist and made more casual by the open collar of his white shirt. It had seemed overdone downstairs while he waited, but in upper rooms, it was on par with the mix of suits and tuxedos as they ran counterpoint to ladies' sleek dresses and wide gowns.

The main area was to his right, with its hardwood floors that ran to the edge of the stage; this was raised three feet, having a narrow catwalk that extended outward and covered with polished wood. Above it hung a row of lights, prepared to illuminate the stage while leaving the audience comfortably in the dark veil that defined the room. It was full of dimmed lights, soft furniture, and dark corners.

Shoving his sunglasses to his forehead, Yohji scanned the room. A lifted hand caught his attention, and, fixing a charming smile on his face, he approached Kaimo. The man was sleek in his three piece suit, a unique deep turquoise, undoubtedly custom dyed, that matched his eyes. These were, if tending towards a hard stare, alluring when set against his light skin and long, black hair which hung loose around his shoulders, a few stray pieces slipping forward to soften the square quality of his jaw. He flashed Yohji a smile of perfect white teeth as the man approached.

"Kawate-san, it's a pleasure to see you." His voice was not as deep as one expected, nor as harsh; it took on a playful quality as he greeted Yohji by his alias.

"The pleasure's mine, Kaimo-san." Yohji inclined his head in an informal bow.

"Nonsense. Did you bring your leash, Kawate?"

Yohji had noted leads in a number of hands, anxiously anticipating a new slave to guide to the basement where, reportedly, a number of play rooms were established. Access to these were severely restrict, but the security inside was practically nonexistent.

"Ah, not tonight," he shoved his hands in his pockets in a good imitation of embarrassment, "I'm afraid I'm still a pathetic observer of the games."

"No good, Kawate. As much money as you have! You should be more adventurous."

"Perhaps you're right."

"Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

The man's arm fell lightly over his shoulders, and Yohji found himself tugged in the direction of the next room. He forced himself to smile at Kaimo as they approached the granite-topped bar and calmly let the man direct him to one of the high stools. Yohji found the other behind him, leaning over his back to talk to the bartender, then again to Yohji.

"A slave, or companion if you rather, is thing of great pleasure, Kawate. And I know you can appreciate that." His smooth hand slipped up Yohji's arm and across his neck in an uncomfortable caress.

Kaimo let him choose which martini glass he wanted, so Yohji assumed it safe to sip at the clear drink.

"I suppose," he allowed.

"Good!" Kaimo clapped him on the shoulder, "Because I have a surprise for you."

This is it, Yohji thought, expecting an invitation to Kaimo's rooms and a chance to kill the man.

He was disappointed.

"Tonight, I'm buying you a present."

~tbc~

Notes: I should have chapter four up sometime later today. Please review, it keeps the keys clicking.


	4. Brand Me

Chapter Four: Brand Me

* * *

He was tired, but he was no longer able to determine if the weariness originated from body or mind. Things hurt, and he hurt, and the world hurt. More than once he'd wanted to die. It had been a desperate wish, a deep, lasting longing for a knife to stab too deep, for too much blood to be lost, for his consciousness to slip away and not return. But then there was her face, and his life became worth something through her.

He didn't know if Schuldig saw this, or if Crawford already knew.

The man came to him again. He stood tall and composed over the kneeling Ran. Schuldig stepped away from his side, fingers dancing over his neck in a strangely comforting gesture. He didn't want to find it so, and it made him sick with himself.

He was bound, again, with his wrists behind his back and his forearms roped uncomfortably together with something thick and nylon that scrubbed at his skin through his white button-down shirt. He felt odd, dressed like that, with his black slacks and clean socks; he had been unclothed for a good part of the last . . . what, months? Though he was grateful, Ran wondered when his meager shield of cloth would be ripped away, leaving him more naked for its loss.

Perhaps Crawford would do it now. Maybe he would have him again; rape, even when he tried to avoid it, the word stuck in his mind like a splinter, rough and painful and impossible to remove. Ran hoped it would be quick and that he wouldn't throw up afterwards. He hated that, regurgitating whatever the man had forced him swallow, lying sick and weak on the floor of the bathroom, if he made it that far.

Part of his mind wanted to beg Crawford not to touch him, but he wouldn't give in to that. It was a weak, stupid thing to do.

The man now crouched in front of him. Ran kept his head lowered, a lesson hard but well learned after multiple concussion and more than one kick to his groin. Still, he felt the other smile.

"Look at me, Ran," Crawford ordered.

He complied, slowly disclosing amethyst eyes from beneath the long fall of red bangs.

"I have a present for you." He drew something form his pocket, a small piece of metal. Ran recognized it instantly, and it sent a shock through his system, tensing his muscles and sending his heart into a rapid rhythm.

//She's fine.// Shuldig spoke in his head, but Ran was far from trusting him.

"He thinks you've done something to her," the German said aloud.

"No, Ran," Crawford was serious. "I simply brought this to serve as a reminder."

Lifting the gold earring in front of Ran's face, he considered it, giving the boy time to look before placing the post against his right ear. It touched, then pricked, then hurt as the post was shoved through unpierced flesh, its unprofessional jab releasing a trickle of blood that began to run slowly down the length of the earring to drip against the pristine white of Ran's shirt.

"I just cleaned that," Schuldig complained lightly from behind him.

"That is for you," Crawford explained as he wiped his hands on a silken handkerchief withdrawn from the pocket of his black suit coat. "Schuldig tells me you have significant attachments to that bauble, so I'll let you keep it. When you think of doing something stupid, of resisting or escaping or something equally foolish, look at it, feel it, the weight of your responsibilities. Nod if you understand."

Ran nodded, feeling the light swing of the earring, the odd metallic brush against his chin. Images of his past, a strange before-life that didn't fit with his here and now, flitted through his mind. There was a laughing face which he longed to see, even in its current silence. He would have prayed, but Ran was certain the gods had long abandoned him.

"Good," Crawford kept looking at him. "Though there is one more item. You will not longer use your name, Ran. I have chosen a new one for you, to secure your anonymity, of course."

He thought it might be a number, or some generic term of servitude.

"When someone asks your name—not that anyone will—you will answer 'Aya.'"

Not that, he silently pleaded, trying to keep the helplessness from his eyes with the hard stare he had crafted over the last weeks. Ran wasn't sure he could do it, could go by her name every day, a constant reminder of his failure. He would rather have no name, to be blanked from the world's consciousness.

"Do you understand?"

He nodded.

"Good," Crawford went to rise, then thought again. Grabbing Ran by the back his hair, he crushed their lips together. It was a rough kiss as he forced his tongue through slack lips, but it ended quickly and Ran was tossed backward. He landed awkwardly on his side and struggled to sit without the aid of his arms. Crawford stood, completely composed, looked for a moment, and walked from the room.

Schuldig bent and pushed him back to a kneeling position. He used a rough cloth to brusquely wipe the blood from Ran's neck.

//Relax. You'll be the star of the show, kätzchen.//

//Don't call me that.// It was his weary mental reply, a thoughtless response. //My name is Ran…no,// he corrected it in his own mind, //_Aya_.//

He was going to be Aya, but it was not her life he would lead. He would suffer for all her sins, for all his own inabilities; he would experience and purge the evil that kept her still. Then, then maybe she could live.

He would be Aya.

He hated it, but it meant Ran could go. He could sink into those tenuous memories and be free.

~tbc~

Notes: For the sake of clarity, Ran will henceforth be referred to as Aya even in his own thoughts; he's thorough like that (Aya-chan will be designated as such).

Okay, so no reviews so far on this. I realize you guys have diverse and interesting lives beyond fanfiction, but throw us a bone here? After getting lectured a few years ago, I don't "hold fics hostage" for reviews, but if there's no response, then there's not much point continuing, you know? *insert dramatic tears with falling cherry blossoms and Usagi-ish spotlight scene*

*Schuldig walks in, smacks Miko over the head with her own fic, and drags her off to write about nekkid Yohji*

Remember, reviews make Schu-chan smile with teeth.


	5. Buy Me

Chapter Five: Buy Me

* * *

He hadn't intended to accept, had a number of viable excuses at the ready in fact, until Kaimo had made it exceedingly clear that owning "the proper toys" was the only missing prerequisite for Yohji's joining of his playtime in the basement. He had waffled momentarily, but sensing his immediate termination of intimacies with Kaimo, backtracked and reluctantly accepted, pleading his own ability to pay as an excuse for his behavior.

Kaimo had simply smiled and pressed a new, stiff leather leash into his hand.

They stood, now, before the stage as the lights pulsed in warning then went out, leaving only a soft, diffuse glow in the middle of the stage as the gathering audience was cast into near darkness and certain obscurity. Kaimo stood close to his left, long fingers brushing Yohji's hand, skirting up his forearm to grasp his bicep through his jacket as the taller man spoke quietly in his ear.

"Choose a good one, Kawate. After all, you never forget your first."

The sexual suggestion was blatant. Yohji repressed a shudder. Kritiker's photos of abused women and children sprang to mind, their pretty faces juxtaposed with welts, bruises, and even open wounds. Some of them were dead, staring with glassy eyes that still pleaded for explanation. These slaves, these people, would be left unclothed, chained, and waiting in a bedroom or backroom or closet, living lovedolls with no more choice than unresisting plastic. It was unspoken in some classy circles of Marked, and discussed in detail in all others. Slaves were traded among friends, and it wasn't unusual, Yohji now knew, for their sexual services to be wagered in poker games or handed out by drunken masters.

And it was for this specific purpose that Kaimo's slaves were popular. He offered not the rough, scarred skin of petty criminals, but new merchandise.

A spotlight suddenly burst onto the stage, harsh and fluorescent as it illuminated a slick podium. Behind it stood a large trunk of a man; his black tuxedo struggled to conceal his overdeveloped muscles, with the sleeves pulled tight and white collar gripping his wide, veined neck. With his green hair cropped military short and accompanied by a goatee that was too small for his square face, he looked like a Wrestlemania reject turned maitre d.

"Good evening," he smiled with an unattractive amount of gums as he leaned over the microphone.

Itsura Joji, Yohji's mind supplied, not an innocent by far, but not a target.

"We'll begin this evening with a particular beauty," Joji announced, turning to watch as a muscular foreign man in a black t-shirt walked out holding the end of a leash. At the other end, staggering as the leash was yanked forward, was a beautiful woman. She might have been twenty-five, if that. Her hair was long and dark, spilling over ivory shoulders. Her brown eyes spoke the extreme innocence of the mentally challenged. Yohji's heart went out to her, and he fought the urge to snap Kaimo's neck right then and there. She stood completely naked before the crowd, ample breasts heaving in fear as the bright spotlight blinded her. Her hands were bound behind her back.

"Lot one-eight-four," Joji's deep voice informed. "She's fresh, ladies and gentlemen, without a former master. You'll find her form is pleasing with a notable absence of any significant damage. Note, please, the meek personality."

The man in the t-shirt turned the woman around to display her backside. There were tears in her eyes as Joji began the bidding at 2,000,000 yen. There were immediate offers.

"Petty change," Kaimo stated. "Do you want her?"

He almost said yes to save her a sale to someone else, but something in his head said wait.

"She's too sad."

"Yes. Not well trained to make such a display."

The woman went for just under 5,000,000 yen to a middle-aged man with a limp. He came to the stage to claim her, handing over a thick roll of bills before snapping his ready leash to her collar, all to the polite applause of the audience.

Another woman followed, a bit younger and slightly more ragged looking, but with pretty features. After her a boy, young and blond and heavily scarred; he wore a cheap fudoshi and met his fate with practiced detachment. Two more women came after that, one wearing a bright sundress as she walked away with a frigid-looking female buyer.

Yohji and Kaimo took a break and got another drink while the latter encouraged his 'friend' to make a selection so that the night's planned activities might proceed. Deciding it wouldn't much matter which person he pretended to buy, Yohji was set to select the next slave up for auctions—a corpulent young girl, advertised with good health. He was about to open his mouth when a thought shot through his head.

//Wait.//

It was strange, but he wrote it off as instinct. After all, Kaimo would probably not be interested in getting kinky with a chubby adolescent.

"Now," Joji announced, "we have a rare treat. Lot one-nine-three."

Red?

"That one."

~*~

Black pupils consumed the eyes, glazed intensity eating away their strange color as the boy peered up at Yohji while he stood on the stage, trapped in a surreal moment of golf clapping and flesh peddling. Kaimo handed over the cash with a flourish—more than double any other bid that night—and Joji grinned wide enough to reveal his missing canine. The man in the t-shirt unsnapped his own leash, wordlessly stepped away, and offered Yohji his new purchase.

The spotlight beat down over the slave as he knelt on the stage floor, hands bound behind his back and face lifted to meet Yohji's. He might have been a captured noble, perhaps a young samurai tortured for information; something in his person, though thin and broken and obviously drugged, whispered honor. It was in his angular features, the way his eyes lifted, his failed attempt to straighten his posture, the formal way his knees and feet laid elegantly together even as he was sold away.

Yohji was grateful he was clothed. Though the dress shirt and slacks were too big, they offered some semblance of humanity. Had this boy arrived naked, his pallid skin all revealed against that fire-colored hair, Yohji might have thought he was an angel, or a hallucination from a really good acid trip.

As it was, it still took Kaimo's instruction to get him to apply the leash.

The snap closed with a loud click, and the boy's chin sank back against his chest.

~tbc~

Notes: Ah, look at all the reviews! You made Schu-chan and the Miko very happy! So, in that light, we humbly say: Thank you reader, may we have another?


	6. Beat Me

Notes: I tried to make this chapter a bit longer as a thank you to those of you who took time to review! Thanks!

Chapter Warnings: this one definitely knocks this over into the M/NC-17/X category, a bit of graphic detail, pretty

good potential for squick if you're sensitive to blood, non-con

* * *

Chapter Six: Beat Me

* * *

"Tsk," Kaimo frowned as the boy swayed unsteadily behind Yohji, bumping a thin shoulder into the doorframe as they passed into the hall. "Joji got carried away."

Yohji followed him to one of the smaller side rooms, one with two facing love seats and eerily lit by a fake candelabrum that flickered on the low table between them. The leash was stiff and awkward in his hand, tugging back several times but immediately relaxing as the boy summoned strength to continue forward. Yohji didn't look back to watch the boy follow him; seeing him made Yohji feel uneasy, and he had to concentrate now.

"You may want to sit," Kaimo directed, eyes focused over Yohji's shoulder, devouring what they found there.

"Sure," he agreed, unsure how to navigate the process when attached to another person. Affecting ease and hoping for the best, he settled himself at the far end of one loveseat and, with reluctance, turned to see the boy slide to the floor. He knelt there, mere inches from Yohji's feet, head bowed and completely still.

"Well trained," the dark haired man commented. "He'll be fun to play with, though I'm not sure he's up to it tonight."

No, he couldn't let it be delayed. He couldn't show up at home with an incomplete mission and a beautiful love slave. Yohji had a sudden, inappropriate thought of pleading with Omi as the naked slave sat on his bed: 'Please can I keep him? I'll feed him and walk him and fuck him every day.' He bit back a laugh and hoped that hell had a smoking section.

"He's fine," he slipped into the easy persona of Kawate who went with the flow of the world and expected his daddy's money to buy him out of any trouble it caused. "I rather like them…pliable."

Kaimo's smile was darker than the room.

~*~

The fog was starting to wear off, clinging just at the edge of his world now. As it parted, the pain returned, and Aya almost longed for the numb stupor induced by the needle. But it wasn't safe. He tried to order his thoughts, to force the messy jumble of events into some cohesive structure of meaning. There had been Schuldig, then the man with needle, bright lights that hurt his eyes, and people, so many people to watch his humiliation. They clapped when the two men came on stage. Someone had stared at him, a hazy silhouette against the light; he hadn't remembered to bow his head, and he wondered if he had simply forgotten the punishing blow. There was shuffling after that, and stairs. He thought he might have fallen on them, but it wasn't clear. And now, there was sensation.

It was pain, again, as always. His arms pulled in a new direction, upwards, stiff and extended and bearing most of his weight since his toes barely touched the cold floor. He was cold, all over, and he was naked again. Except the collar. He tried to summon the familiar hate for the thing, but it didn't come.

Pain, again, sudden this time. Was it whip or crop? What was he supposed to say to Farfarello? What was the lesson? He couldn't remember; it hurt in stinging lines across his back and bottom, increasing with irregular strikes. What was he supposed to do to stop it?

The crop—he knew its linear strike across the back of his thighs—hit harder. Aya felt the slow seep of blood. His head was still light and dizzy, and the copper smell made him feel sick. He fought against the urge to vomit, focusing on the friction of the collar against his neck, its familiar biting rub that accompanied each jerk of his abused body.

One pain stopped, and there was talking. Not in his head. Where was Schuldig? He must be with Crawford. If Crawford did that now, he was definitely going to be sick. They shouldn't have given him the drugs; they shouldn't have taken them away.

"Uhn!" He felt the cry ripped from his dry throat as two rough fingers jabbed at his entrance. They shoved in and out while a sweaty body pressed close, the stiffness of the man's erection pressing against the back of his thigh, against the new wounds there. It wasn't Crawford. A new panic rose inside him, and the edges of his vision began to darken. He fought against it, hard. The fingers left, and, had he had enough oxygen to do so, Aya would have steeled himself for the penetration. As it was, he hung limply and waited.

Hands grabbed his hips, pressing painfully over the jutting bones, bruising on purpose. The body shifted and—

"Enough!"

Schuldig?

~*~

Kaimo jerked away from the boy's body as if it had burnt him. His dark hair was tangled and fell around his face is disarray as he stared in shock at the invading party. Kaimo did not like to be interrupted in his fun, and he was ready now. His open dress shirt was damp with perspiration, the wrinkled folds of cloth flanking his chest and framing his jutting erection, purposefully smeared with the slave's red blood.

"Kawate?"

Was it the same man? The tall blonde standing before him, glaring, teeth clenched and fist resting on the wall where he had just struck it—this was not the mild-mannered, pampered Kawate he had led about for a week. Something about his eyes set Kaimo on edge, and he was about to call his bodyguards when the ferocity melted away to reveal his flirtatious new friend once more.

He took another step away from the slave, just in case. But Kawate was coming up to him, running his hands (scars? what from?) under his shirt, down his sides, talking in a voice of pure viscous honey.

"I'm sorry, Kaimo-san. I'm just . . . I'm jealous . . ."

Of course. The pretty slave couldn't have all the fun. It was too perfect, because what Kaimo could kill this one first, gouge out those deep eyes and pull his long body into thirty different parts. Then, then he could go back to marring the beautiful prisoner. The smell of blood was already filling the room, and his dick twitched in anticipation.

~*~

Aya struggled desperately, trying to get his brain to process the scene in front of him. He knew it was crucial. His life depended on it and, more importantly, hers did. It was her smile that gave him strength. Biting his tongue, he focused on the single point of sensation and forced his eyes open.

The dark haired man from earlier was there; he had given the drugs to the big man. Aya hated him before he realized that this one had held the crop moments before. The other one, the blonde—from before? He thought so. He had sat on the couch, Aya was sure, and the redhead had been at his feet. The blonde was wearing leather boots. Yes, Aya remembered the soft click of the leash. That one was his owner.

_When your Master give you an order, you obey, you understand me? No matter what. You obey, or I will beat you and then force you to watch while I shoot her in the head._

Crawford's words echoed through his mind without his consent, and the phantom pain of instructing blows flared momentarily through the stinging of his back. Aya forced it down and focused on the blonde.

Aya wanted to hate him too, but there just wasn't enough energy to go around.

The blonde had his hands on the other; that one's back was to him, his butt just visible under the tail of the shirt. The blonde's hands were there, kneading the flesh, drawing long, loud moans from him as he rocked against the man's front.

The only thing Aya could do was watch, hoping they would fall asleep afterwards and not go at him together.

Hard turquoise eyes were suddenly back on him; the man watched him while the blonde touched him from behind. His hands ran over his shoulders, massaging—no! The hands flew up and the man's body tensed, lifting off the floor as he arched back against the blonde. He choked, grasping desperately at the silver wire wrapped around his neck. It was biting, slicing, and blood began to spill down his chest. He let out a short, low gurgle, kicked pathetically, and then was still.

~tbc~

Please scratch your name on the dungeon walls so others will know you were here—review, please!


	7. Brave Me

Notes: Sorry for the wait. I had to have an extended argument with myself over not laboring the writing, but the Hentai Slug broke it up by tossing a pretty boy into my lap…and, well, here we are!

Gratitude to the reviewers: Thank you blackorcid; I'm in your debt for all your kind reviews, and I will do my best to write an Omi and Aya scene! And thank you Midnattssol, ranma, and oh-so-secretive anonymous reviewer. To Kite, thank you, especially for the note on the notes (I recently had someone ask me to remove them altogether and you've seconded my decision not to!). And, of course, thank you Maria; the slug adores your cookies and hopes to bake you a cake in return, one with special lemon icing. All of your comments mean a lot to me and keep me working on this with enthusiasm.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Brave Me

* * *

"Bastard." Yohji resisted the urge to kick the corpse.

The rattle of chains brought his attention to the dungeon's other occupant whose presence had been reduced to background noise while Yohji killed.

Thick leather cuffs wrapped thin, raw wrists, attaching them to a large hook in the ceiling and dragging the sleek body upwards so that the ends of the surprisingly delicate feet barely drug against the stonework. The stretch displayed every line of the boy's body, the narrow forearms, slight bulge of the bicep, diagonal ridges of ribs, dramatic jut of twin hipbones, lean thighs, and that angular jaw. The long trails of his scarlet hair brushed his shoulders as his head dipped forward and was dragged up again. He was in pain, nearly unconscious, and Yohji realized he might have to kill him.

His mind whispered the word _euthanasia_, and it frightened him. Quickly he shoved Balinese away, unsure if he was shedding the skin of inhumanity or donning a fake fur of human decency. It didn't matter, as he grasped it as real and put it to immediate work as he examined the redhead.

He wondered how much the boy knew, or could remember. Deciding he had no names and was in no position to gain leverage anyway, Yohji turned to leave him, carefully stepping over Kaimo's cooling carcass to find the stairs.

"Wait." It was raspy, low and demanding. But the tone slipped quickly to pleading, "Please wait…"

Yohji came back, anxious and sharply aware that alarms might already be going off. He knew he had to go, but he looked into violet eyes and waited while imaginary sirens ripped through his mind.

"If you," a cough. The boy tried to turn his head, but his arms were too tightly bound. "If you leave me, they'll kill her."

"What?"

"…with you," his chest heaved as he struggled for air in the awkward position, "I have to go with you."

"Look—"

"Please," his eyes were desperate but he seemed uncomfortable with the words, as if each was forced reluctantly from him. "Please…Master."

How the hell was he supposed to say no to that?

~*~

Aya wanted to hold himself upright, to sit at the edge of the seat and be mindful of the blood that was already seeping through the navy jacket his owner had draped over his shoulders. His hands were still bound, but now dropped in front of his body, allowing a tiny shred of modesty as he rested them over his groin which as still rather exposed under the jacket's hem. Thankfully, the blonde was watching the road and not his disgraceful lack of decorum as he sprawled bonelessly in the leather seat.

He hadn't been able to walk from the building, and the man had carried him; it was embarrassing, and, worse, it was not the impression he had been ordered to give his new owner. Schuldig had made it painfully clear that Schwartz would be checking on him, and that his infractions could void their agreement. He hadn't meant to let his owner carry him, or to lay him gently in the passenger seat of his strange car; his body had just betrayed him, too strung out by pain and blood loss and stress. No matter how he wanted to pull himself up right and keep his leaking blood off the car's expensive seats, it was a losing battle. His head ached in counterpoint to his throbbing muscles and stinging wounds, but the cold rush of wind over him calmed his nerves with its brush of once-familiar freshness. Relaxing against the chilled window where he lay, Aya felt unconsciousness take him.

~tbc~

Notes: Oh that? That's just condensation. Yohji and Aya are taking a shower and the room's all . . . hot and wet…wanna leave a review and write your name on the mirror?


	8. Bandage Me

Chapter Eight: Bandage Me

* * *

Okay, so he had a wounded, mostly naked, fantastically beautiful slave napping in the front seat of the Seven. Yohji had had worse nights. Still, Omi wasn't going to be thrilled with this, and he had a feeling that Kritiker wouldn't either. Oh well, it wasn't the first time Kudou Yohji had fucked up.

He sat in the car for a long time, breathing the cool air of the quiet garage and trying to decide what to do. Nothing came, so he finished his third cigarette and decided to apply himself to more practical matters.

Opening his door, Yohji slid from the Seven, closed it, and walked to the passenger side. The boy's head was against the door, his body slouched in the seat, small even in Yohji's suit jacket. It had slipped down from one pale shoulder as he curled up. Yohji wasn't sure if he was asleep or unconscious.

Carefully, he opened the door, hand ready to shift the boy's weight to the back of the seat.

"Hey," Yohji jostled his arm. "Hey, guy."

There was no reply as his head lolled onto the bare shoulder.

"Okay. Let's go, princess."

Sliding his arms under the boy, Yohji lifted him easily over one of his own shoulders so that his long legs hung limply against Yohji's chest and his cuffed hands bumped the assassin's back as he walked. Yohji might have thought about the beautiful ass near his face, but he was busy marveling over the shear lightness of his new charge. The guy was only a few inches shorter than himself, but the fucker was thin, and though it made walking up the stairs surprisingly easy, Yohji resolved to feed him as soon as possible.

There were four rooms on the third level of their building. One of these was the office, better known as where Omi played computer games, but used occasionally for actual work and storage of important files. There was also a tiny darkroom nestled in one corner, for those rather sensitive photographs that couldn't quite be sent to the local drug store. Besides the office, there were the three bedrooms and the shared bathroom that never had enough room in the medicine cabinet.

It was here Yohji headed after gently depositing his "princess" on his own large bed. He drew the large plastic bowl from under the sink and let it fill with warm water while he pulled out the med kit and a clean washcloth. All of these in hand, he returned to the unconscious figure.

He was laying face-down on the bed, skin extremely pallid against the deep green comforter. His hands, Yohji noted, were scrunched awkwardly under his chest. Surely the leather cuffs were biting into his wrists, but it didn't seem to register; he wondered, sadly, if the boy was simply used to sleeping that way.

~*~

The water was approaching opaque, now, a brackish red-brown that Yohji was all too familiar with as he dumped it down the sink and stowed the bowl. It had taken almost an hour to clean the boy's wounds. They weren't too deep; most hadn't drawn blood. But the last few strikes of Kaimo's weapon, aimed at the lower back and thighs, had gotten vicious, and those had bled rather profusely and had to be handled carefully, with their rough edges and potential for infection. Yohji had applied antibacterial ointment to these along with gauze, before wrapping bandages securely around the boy's chest and back, continuing down around his lower back and abdomen. It was harder to remain impassive as he lifted one leg then the other to bandage his thighs where the crop had scored the sensitive flesh. His bottom was more difficult, and Yohji ended up applying several large, square Band-Aids across the worst places and securing them with white medical tape that wasn't too much lighter than the boy's skin.

Besides a few odd groans as he manipulated the boy's position, his patient was silent.

It had been a strange and intimate process. Yohji had done it before, with wounded teammates, but having another person spread naked and unconscious in front of him while he prodded their wounds made him feel slightly uncomfortable. It was a bit better once he had removed the cuffs and collar, laying them on the nightstand among remnants of his medical attention.

Restoring the medkit to its place under the sink, he padded back to his room. The redhead was still unconscious, laying flat on his back tucked into his elaborate bedding. Yohji stood at the bedside for a few minutes, looking at the boy in the warm lamplight. There were a thousand questions to be asked and more than a few details to be worked out. He didn't have a clue how or whether this was going to go, but he knew it wouldn't be easy. Still, looking at the boy's face, beautiful with the lips parted in uneasy sleep, Yohji also knew he was going to keep him.

With a sigh aimed at the situation and himself, Yohji shucked his clothes, tossing them randomly on top of one of the disorganized piles that dominated the floor near his closet. He paused, standing naked as he considered where he might locate something to sleep in, then quietly opened one of the dresser drawers to pull out a little used pair of cotton sleep pants. He tugged them on and flicked off the lamp. Carefully, he settled on the edge of the bed, on top of the comforter, and laid down. Tucking one arm under his head, Yohji watched the boy until he fell asleep.

~*~

Aya jerked away, instantly panicked at the gentle tug of the blankets that his mind insisted were restraints. He soon realized differently as his hands came free and clutched at his own hair; he sat panting amid the soft covers as the rushing of his heart refused to abate. It increased tenfold when, casting his eyes to the left, he found his owner resting beside him.

_*** * ***_

_The bed creaked as Crawford rolled off of him, panting and sweaty. The air of the large room was cool, and gooseflesh textured his naked body when the man moved away. The collar, though, was sticky with sweat and hung heavy on his neck. More concerning, Aya's head hurt, and a tenuous reaching of his fingers indicated a swelling knot on its crown where it had been forced against the headboard with jarring force. He couldn't touch the other pain, a sharp, stinging ache of his insides, but the wounds were no less real for this. He tried to even out his breathing, using the measured air flow to force back the tears and bile._

"_Floor," Crawford said._

_Aya heard, distantly, but before he could process the command, he found himself suddenly sprawled on the hardwood, he elbow aching as it barely saved his face as he landed on his stomach when Crawford kicked him to the floor. He was startled, and forcing himself to his knees, he scrambled for the small wastebasket. He clutched it to his chest as he wretched into it, unable to get his breath back even as his vomiting turned to dry heaving. The harsh jerks of his reflexive system shot angry pains through his injured parts, and his throat burned with the bitter acid drawn from his stomach. _

"_Stop it," Crawford demanded, sitting up in the bed to stare at Aya as he hunched over the wastebasket. _

_Aya tried to breathe, but his body hitched again. He heard the vague growl, missed the opening of the bedside drawer, and gasped in surprise as the withdrawn horse crop fell stiffly over his bowed shoulders. He released the basket, cowering under the heavy blows that continued to assault his back as the crop came down on his flesh with a stiff, snapping sound._

_He was shaking when it stopped, elbows pressed to the floor and head in his hands. The crop dangled, curled leather end just touching the sensitive skin of his neck as Crawford leaned over the edge of the high bed._

"_Ridiculous. All this fuss over sleeping on the floor."_

_The crop snapped again; Aya jumped as another burning stripe cut across his shoulders. _

"_Another rule. Are you listening?"_

_The crop hit. Aya managed a vague nod of his head._

"_You fuck in your master's bed, but you do not sleep there. Understand?"_

_Another hit, across his shoulder blades, biting on top of the bones. He nodded again._

"_Slaves and dogs sleep on the floor, little bitch."_

_There was a flare of resistance at the word dog, but it was distant through the pain. Then the bed creaked again, marking Crawford's retraction. The drawer slid shut. The lamp clicked and the room went dark. _

_His breath was shallow, but he forced his muscles to relax. Carefully, Aya shifted to his side, folding one arm under his aching head as he brought his knees reluctantly towards his chest, instinctually shielding his privates, chafed and raw from Crawford's rough attentions. His free hand clung fiercely to one damp eartail, an ineffectual__,__ childlike attempt to comfort himself as he fell into an exhausted sleep on the cold floor. _

*** * ***

Aya blinked against the memory, shoving it back to focus on the now. He noticed the curious presence of clean bandages across his chest and belly, the slight pull of medical tape in other places, as he slipped soundlessly from the bed. He swayed as he gained his feet and sank, thankfully, to his knees before his lightheadedness caused him to fall. It was a strange, blessed relief that filled him when he spotted his collar on the nightstand, within easy reach. Once it was fastened securely once more around his neck, he settled onto the floor. Its wood surface was covered by a coarse, woven rug, and Aya hoped his new owner wouldn't mind if he slept on it.

~tbc~

Author's Notes: Are the flashbacks clear enough? Please leave a review for the pretty boys…they've so little reading material while locked in my basement.


	9. Blame Me

Notes: I wrote this scene three times, and this version finally won out as the most realistic. I hope it's okay. Thank you all for reading!

* * *

Chapter Nine: Blame Me

* * *

Little bastard.

Yohji rolled his eyes as he stood over the figure. He was more than a little offended that someone had declined his bed for the floor, but the majority of this anger, he realized too quickly for his own liking, was a result of the moment of panic he had suffered. Upon waking he had spent a few tense minutes thinking the other had slipped away in the night, and the intensity of his disappointment was disconcerting. It had twisted his stomach, driven him from bed, and made him think at the ungodly hour of seven, planning intricate methods of locating his missing guest, that is, until he almost tripped over him.

Yohji should have thought it out fist, used the god-given time he had to come up with a cohesive plan of action. But, then again, Yohji had always been a man of instant gratification, and the collar was currently assaulting his sense of aesthetic decency.

The boy was lying so close to the bed that had the blonde chosen to stumble out of that side, he would have undoubtedly stepped on him. He was curled up on the stained area rug, resting on his side with one arm tucked under his head and the other draped over his stomach. Facing the bed, his back was to Yohji, his bare and bandaged bottom displayed as he rested with one leg drawn up slightly higher than the other but with both pulled towards his stomach. The thin, slatted rays of pale morning light that managed to force their way through Yohji's thick defense of blinds fell over him, highlighting the last vestiges of fading marks and bruises as well as fresh injuries of the night, but when it touched his hair, it lit it with some strange precious metal gold.

He was beautiful—bandages and tangled hair only intensifying his fall angel image. Yohji might have been in awe if not for the damn collar strapped around his neck.

Yohji wanted it off.

It was this thought that put an edge to his voice as he asked his question, simultaneously reaching both hands to the collar buckle as he rolled the boy onto his back, "What the hell were you think—"

His question was cut off as the boy's eyes shot open, wide with fear. Yohji had time only to think 'different,' before the boy jerked away from him. Yohji's grasp on the collar's front was instinctually firm, preventing him from righting himself properly and causing him to bang his head into the side of the bedframe with a sudden, loud crack that made Yohji wince in sympathy.

He released the collar and reached to check the injury only to have the boy draw further away. Getting his knees under him, he scooted quickly backwards into the makeshift corner created by the large bed and its matching nightstand. He ducked his head, pressing his palms to the floor and said something Yohji had not expected:

"Forgive me."

"What?" A flinch at that, and the boy's head lowered further.

"Please forgive me . . . Master."

Yohji stared for a moment, for though the last word sounded forced, there was no play in the deep voice, and Yohji got the definite impression that had he reached out and slapped the other across the face, he would have gotten the same reply.

Shoving his blonde hair out of his face, Yohji settled onto the floor, dragging his long legs into an easy Indian style position so that he could be at eye level with the redhead rather than leaning over him. Well, they'd be at eye level if the other decided to stop inspecting the rug and look at him anytime soon.

Two minutes later, his chances didn't seem any better.

Yohji needed a cigarette break. He wondered if the boy smoked; about to ask, he realized there were a few priorities he ought to cover first.

"Hey, can you look at me?"

The eyes met his in an instant—purple, like amethysts dusted in the fine silt of exhaustion but with grand potential.

"Better. I'm Kudou Yohji. Yohji's fine, okay?"

A nod. Yohji waited, but there was no following reply. His princess was not a conversationalist.

"And what should I call you?"

"Whatever you like."

He might have been mistaken, certainly the submissive slump of the shoulders said he was, but Yohji thought he heard defiance buried in the boy's voice; it came off with the connotation that Yohji could call him whatever he pleased, but only because he didn't personally give a rat's ass what he went by. In Yohji's opinion, this made the boy vastly more interesting and a whole lot less hopeless.

"Is that so?" He paused to consider. "Well, then, princess it is!"

There was a visible tightening of his jaw, a slight straightening of the shoulders, and a slightly clipped quality to the reply, "As you wish, Master."

"Alright, princess, let's get up and dressed."

Leveraging himself from the floor, Yohji popped his back and sauntered to the closet. His princess followed, standing a few steps behind him, hands clasped over his privates as he stared at the floor and waited. Yohji cast him a glance, then, purposefully before he could become distracted by either enticing skin or infuriating collar, went back to pulling out things to wear. He passed a pair of stonewashed jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt to the boy who seemed surprised. But he took them gratefully. So Yohji added a pair of underwear (a thong being the only type of said article available) and a large towel which, despite his apparently familiarity with being nude, the boy quickly wrapped around his slender hips.

They walked together to the bathroom, Yohji trailed by the princess, two steps behind and one to his right, a habit that promised to annoy him in record time. He halted outside the door and turned to the other.

"Okay, you shower first while I steal a smoke. Get dressed and meet me in my room, okay?"

"Alone?"

"Yeah . . . you can do that, right?"

"Yes, Master." An almost enthusiastic, hurried nod accompanied this statement, his eagerness tempered by a cautious expression that seemed to expect the simple boon to be ripped away.

Yohji motioned him inside and pulled the door towards the frame, congratulating himself on remembering not to close it all the way. That, he thought, might be enough to startle a person so used to locked doors, and, despite his assumed ease, Yohji knew too well that there could be nasty surprises that might require sudden entrances.

~tbc~

Notes: Carve a notch in Yohji's bedpost, leave a review!


	10. Drown Me

To the reviewers: Thank you all so much! Maria, the boys much appreciated the food, though I did make them beg for it of course, and I think I might be able to make them do just about anything for the lime-flavored cake. Kate the Night, the laptop-box review was hilarious, and I'm honored to have my work carried about in it! Blackorcid, I always look forward to seeing your reviews; it motivates me to post chapters sooner 'cause I know I'll hear from you, and I totally owe you a fic of dedication, so if there's a particular pretty boy scenario you'd like, let me know and I'll do my humble best. And macDhai, thank you for taking time to review chapter by chapter, and you've totally reminded me that I meant to go back and revise the first two or three chapters (and that bit of six); I didn't really hash out the plot in my head until chapter eight, so they need some work. Thank you all, and I hope this chapter lives up to your expectations!

* * *

Chapter Ten: Drown Me

* * *

The door closed quietly behind him, and Aya waited for the unfriendly click of a lock. There was none, a sliver of room left between the door and the frame to remind him that it could easily be opened. And the lock was on the inside.

Carefully, with attention not to stir the casual arrangement of bottles and brushes there, he set the loose bundle of clothes along with his towel on the vanity and found himself unexpectedly reflected in a large mirror.

He stood, for the first time in what seemed forever, in a room that was strikingly normal, a quality his life with Crawford had been purposefully deprived of. But here were things—oddly familiar, like relics from a country visited in childhood—that exuded common, daily life. The man, his owner, was obviously not normal. He was a killer. But here three toothbrushes in a plastic holder specked with toothpaste, a wrinkled hand towel with a floral pattern, and a green bath mat beneath his hare feet—so normal.

And the mirror. In anything was out of place, it was the man reflected there.

He hadn't seen it before, not beyond a passing glance in some reflective surface. It was a thin, ragged version of himself that wore the thick, black collar with its silver ring. The skin he ran his fingers across was too pale, worse than before, making the circles beneath his eyes stark in their darkness. The eyes themselves, a feature he had once taken stupid pride in, were changed, darkened, though made more prominent by his cheekbones (these made strikingly visible by his thinness) they weren't as bright. The hair, too—it was longer than before around his face, the long tails of red sweeping well past his chin in sharp comparison to the back. He had cut that with Farfarello's knife when he had been left too long when assumed unconscious after the pale man had used the long tail to bang Aya's head into the stone wall. It was chopped, uneven; all of it was dull, like his eyes, suffering from lack of care and more basic deprivation of nutrition. Aya thought he was lucky it hadn't fallen out.

A sardonic smile pulled at his lips.

Lucky.

That was a fucking joke,

He shoved away from the sink. Quickly he made use of the toilet, intensely grateful for his temporary solitude. He flushed and rinsed his hands before turning on the water in the tub, testing it with his fingers before switching on the shower.

The collar he fingered for a moment; it would be heavy after being wet, but if Schuldig came . . . no, such trivial discomforts were not worth the risk.

Behind the sliding door of frosted glass, Aya momentarily found heaven. There was no sound except the water on ceramic, no touch save for its warm spill over his skin. There were no hands, no hurts, no anything except the comfortable deprivation of the shower.

His brain tried to calculate how long it had been since he had cleaned himself without his captors' help or, on more than one occasion, leering attention, but he didn't know exactly. Months, certainly, had passed, probably not more than a year. What month was it now? What day? Perhaps his owner would let him see a calendar—

He cut off the foolish thought quickly, shoving his soaked bangs from his eyes. He mustn't make assumptions. Initial kindnesses were no guarantees of later allowances and could very well be some kind of test of his loyalty and submission. He couldn't afford a misstep like this morning, being caught without his collar, stumbling over his words. Aya couldn't afford to be so stupid. The man, Yohji, had proven himself very capable of violent retribution, a skill which Aya had no doubt would later be scored into his skin.

He shuddered at the thought of sharp circles of wire tightening around his body.

No matter. He would work hard to please his owner, not for his own bodily sake (that hardly mattered now) but for hers. Schuldig had threatened to watch, to check, and to report; he would not find dissatisfaction in Aya's owner's mind.

Resolved, Aya set his sore muscles to their task. Carefully picking at the tape, he removed the gauze and slowly unwrapped the wet bandages from his chest and thighs, sliding open the shower door to drop them outside in a damp pile of white. Closing it again, he lifted the washcloth his owner had provided and started to clean himself thoroughly. The textured cloth swiped across his face, down his neck, then returned to get behind his ears. Weary of touching unauthorized items like soap or shampoo, he scrubbed roughly at his hair with just the cloth. Likewise, with just water he moved to his body, over his shoulders and down his arms then across his chest, ignoring the tinge of pain the harsh moves evoked from his nipples which were still sore from Crawford's harsh play several days before. Avoiding his back, Aya worked down his legs and back up before carefully cleaning his more tender areas. These stung, but it was worth the discomfort to remove at least a little of the dirt.

Realizing that his methodic cleaning had taken undue time, Aya reluctantly shut off the water and climbed out, feeling better than he had in a long time and simultaneously imagining the punishments that would follow upon such a condition. Surely his owner would not let such self-indulgence continue.

He used the edge of the towel to clean his teeth as best he could, refusing the miss Schuldig's brushings during which he was leashed to a chair while the redhead carried out the process like Aya was a rather pampered pet. He would soon find out how such necessities were handled here, but Aya could make do for the time being. Dressing with care, he cast a last, nervous glance at the mirror to adjust the wet collar around his neck.

~*~

After a cigarette and a quick shower, Yohji dressed in the steam-filled bathroom and rushed through the basic requirement of making himself presentable to the world. Somewhere between mouthwash and leave-in conditioner, it occurred to him that his guest might use such an extended absence to stage an escape. While part of his mind insisted that this would be an easy out, the vast majority demanded he hurry the fuck up and make sure the boy was still there.

His fears were unfounded.

Trying not to be obvious in his rush, Yohji lingered in his own doorway for a second, unnecessarily adjusting the low waistband of his jeans and pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead to better observe the other.

He looked better, or at least a little calmer. Damp red hair, obviously brushed with fingers alone, hung around his face which was (until he noticed Yohji looking) lifted to stare out the window. His features were quickly hidden away as he bowed his head towards the floor. This brought Yohji's eyes to the boy's frame, amazingly little to wear his own jeans (a bit loose around his hips and turned up once at the ankles) and for that t-shirt (the blue, long-sleeved one that hugged the blonde's chest so nicely) to hang a little on his shoulders and over his ribs which, Yohji knew, might be felt through the material.

The leather collar hovered above shirt's rounded neckline line some heavy accessory.

It was the only heavy thing about him. The boy was a fascinatingly exotic creature, made more fey-like by his slightness, though Yohji had no delusions that it was a purposeful cultivation. He might be naturally thin, but the kid had been deprived. Even now, he had deposited himself on the floor, shunning not only the two comfortable chairs but even the rug, to kneel on the hardwood floor with his bare feet and trim legs tucked under him.

Nicotine craving met, Yohji found himself ready for an upcoming trial, but he wasn't quite ready to take on the tangled mess of issues before him. Collar, floor, or no name besides princess—he chose the latter. Once more, he dropped onto the floor in an attempt to achieve at least minimal eye contact (marking it as another antisocial behavior he's try to work on if Omi let him keep the boy, of course).

"Yo," he scooted in towards the boy's side. "Good shower?"

"Yes. Thank you, Master."

Again, Yohji felt the slight hesitation over the appellation, but the quiet appreciation seemed genuine.

"Yohji," he corrected only the name. "Listen. We gotta go downstairs and see the guys."

Tension flooded into the boy's body; his hands, previously resting on his thighs, fisted there. Yohji could only guess what he was thinking, his latest social introduction having been via Kaimo who had nearly raped him as Yohji watched.

"Hey, look here." Nothing. "Look at me, Princess."

Aya did, and there was dread in the eyes, deep, but there.

"Not like that," Yohji tried to smile but got nothing in return. "They're not gonna do anything to you. They might hang me, but you're safe here. Understand?"

It was like dealing with an abused puppy, and Yohji prayed that once he got that collar off, he would stop having such an urge to reach out and pet the boy in comfort.

Yohji sighed, "I don't think introducing you as 'Princess,'" or, his mind supplied silently, my pretty little love slave, "will help this go any smoother. Agree?"

Another small nod.

"What do you want to be called?"

"Whatever—"

Yohji held up a hand and the boy stopped immediately, tensing more and jerking backwards almost imperceptibly. Quickly, Yohji put the hand away and smiled in what he hoped was a soothing manner. Taking a breath, he tried a different tactic.

"Tell me your name," he stated directly.

"Aya."

Okay, so he felt like a heel for utilizing the boy's, uh, Aya's slave training, but for the moment it was the only thing working to his advantage.

"Good. Thank you, Aya."

~tbc~

Notes: And what shall Yohji call you, reader? Leave a review to let him know.


	11. Defend Me

Chapter 11: Defend Me

* * *

Now Yohji couldn't give a flying fuck about creating awkward moments for other people; his Thursday night porn sessions in the living room proved this if his vivid breakfast-time descriptions of his most brilliant conquests didn't. So, in his opinion (developed overnight), it was better to bite the bullet, deal with the initial awkwardness, and get them the hell over Aya's presence as soon as possible. The boy was staying.

A glance over his shoulder found him following quietly, arms tucked close to his body and head lifted only enough to see where he was going. Taking a breath, Yohji lead their tiny party forward, making the quick trip to the coffee pot with Aya obediently in tow. As Yohji retrieved two mugs from the cabinet and filled them with coffee, the boy stood stiffly at his side examining the floor.

"Here," Yohji pressed a cup of coffee at him, and Aya cradled it carefully with both hands. The blonde watched him take a small sip before he turned to meet the curious looks. Ken had even stopped eating, and both he and Omi stared at Aya from their places at the table.

"Omi, Ken, this is Aya. Aya, this is our resident bishounen, Omi, and the pig sitting next to him is Ken."

Ken went to act in defiance of the pig comment, but having to swallow a huge mouthful of eggs before he could speak, found himself unable to do so effectively and decided to resume eating instead.

"Nice to meet you," Omi offered with a smile that was friendly if not quite genuine. "Are you a, uh, friend of Yohji's?"

The connotation was clear; any of Yohji's friends who showed up before noon were undoubtedly lovers of a not so savory variety. Omi said not to bring those into the house. Seeing that Aya was not going to rise to his own defense, Yohji took it upon himself to play knight in shining armor.

"He's from the mission."

He stated it bluntly, ripping off the clean kitchen bandage to reveal the shocking wound of their nightlife. Omi's smile dropped, as did Ken's fork, clattering as it landed on his plate.

"Mission?" Omi asked. "What's he doing here?"

"He was one of the," here he cast a worried glance at Aya who was studying the floor before meeting Omi's accusing eyes, "captives."

"That doesn't explain why he's in our kitchen," Ken pointed out the obvious with more ire than Yohji thought the statement merited. It raised his own hackles, and he wasn't about to let Ken have the corner on righteous anger.

"Kaimo bought him for me as a present," he thought the sarcasm was a nice touch, but it seemed lost on Ken.

"Bought? Present?!"

Ken's stuttered comments were interrupted by Omi in a tone that was surprisingly stern, though hardly unemotional, "You're not going to keep him!"

He didn't quite make it a question, and the fact that his ill-chosen words made Aya sound like a pet irritated Yohji despite the fact he had been guilty of the same. The way he looked over the boy didn't help, his eyes full of disgust that wasn't aimed at Aya as much as his condition. Yohji wasn't anywhere near sure that the boy would be able to decipher the difference, and he was, for the first time, grateful that his charge wasn't meeting anyone's eyes. Damn, but they could show a little compassion. How could they ask him to toss away this bruised, quiet, beautiful little creature?

Omi, taking a breath, repeated, "You don't plan to keep him."

"I do."

"Yohji-kun! It's dangerous. It's wrong. You can't make him—"

"I'm not gonna make him do anything! I'm not a fucking monster!"

"What do you plan to do, then? What about Kritiker? You can't possibly deal with this; be serious," he pleaded.

"I am fucking serious!" He didn't realize he had slammed down his coffee cup until the felt the edge of the counter digging into his forearm. He released the cup, but the anger wasn't so easy to let go. Still, his voice had an eerie calm when he began to speak, and its effect wasn't lost on him as Omi's eyes widened even a Yohji worked himself back up to yelling.

"What should I do, Omi? Ship him back to that ass Joji? Let them sell him off to some bastard who'll tie him up and rape him? Let the fuckers kill him so I don't compromise the god damned organization? Fuck that!"

He hand stung where he used it to smack the counter on the last line; Omi didn't jump at the sound, but Aya did. He was close enough that Yohji almost felt the tremble of his shoulders.

Shit. Could he screw up anything else this morning? No doubt Aya was thinking he would make good on the threat, and he had practically advertised the fact that the boy was almost raped. Belatedly, very, Yohji realized that the discussion (or the yelling match it had degraded into) would have been much better conducted prior to Aya's introduction.

Yohji hoped his brain decided to wake up soon, because living without it was making life damn difficult.

"I'm not taking him back," he managed, leaving the 'because he's mine' thankfully unspoken. That would have Omi up his ass in a heartbeat. "He didn't belong there."

"So you decided to bring him home and fuck him?" The scrape of Ken's chair was loud in the kitchen, and the mug Aya was holding was saved only by Yohji's quick reflexes. Had he not been watching the redhead, he doubted he could have caught it as it slipped between the trembling fingers as Aya shrank back from Ken's anger.

"Back off!" Yohji demanded, shoving at Ken's chest with his elbow. About to retaliate, Ken's eyes flicked to Aya; whatever he saw there, whether the shaking hands or clenched eyes, made him drop his hand.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked when Aya flinched again from the hand, raised now in placation.

"What's wrong with you?!" Yohji returned, stepping between them.

"Uh . . . sorry," Ken mumbled, backing up as if unsure where he had gone wrong enough to land in the position of bad guy in their current situation. Yohji, though, was hardly going to claim that position for himself; he was the knight in shining fucking armor and they could just deal with it.

"Hey, Aya," Yohji tried to smile reassuringly, wondering how much of his morning's work had just been washed down the drain. The redhead had straightened up almost immediately, but he couldn't seem to fight the tremors that ran through his frame. "Why don't you take your coffee in the living room and drink it while I talk to these guys? Do that, Aya?"

A nod. Satisfied, Yohji returned the warm mug to cool hands and pointed out the way. Purple eyes lifted enough to get his bearings, then Aya proceeded cautiously towards the doorway with small, silent steps, giving Ken as wide a berth as possible before slipping silently from the room.

"Yohji-kun," Omi shook his head as the older man took a seat between them at the table.

"I know. But I couldn't leave him there. I mean, look at him! And they," he closed his eyes, the image of Aya's beaten body too fresh in his mind. "He's had it hard."

"I understand. But, he can't stay here. Kritiker—"

"Kritiker might want him."

"What?!"

"I thought about it last night. He can't go back; he saw me kill Kaimo. He probably doesn't have any family, definitely nowhere to go. Maybe he could be Weiss."

"There's a lot of problems with that idea."

"I know."

"He might not be stable. You said Kaimo had him; he may have serious psychological issues."

"Glass houses, chibi."

~tbc~

Notes: All your reviews really excited Yohji, so don't leave him wanting!


	12. Direct Me

Chapter Twelve: Direct Me

* * *

It was a long discussion, eating away a good portion of their Sunday morning and still leaving a hundred unanswered questions. Omi had uneasily acquiesced to talking with Kritiker about taking on Aya after Yohji pointed out that when they discovered the houseguest he would either be killed or shipped off for training and assigned to a team anyway should his skills prove up to the task. Several caveats had preceded this agreement, and while Omi was guaranteed a long chat with the boy, Yohji had signed up for not only basic integration 101 but some kind of weapons training to make his appeal to Kritiker at least a little logical. Lodgings, wardrobe, and mental stability also fell into his jurisdiction, and Yohji got the distinct feeling he was being made to work for a new pet.

If Omi expected him to give Aya up in the face of a little hard work, he was sorely mistaken. Yohji didn't take it lightly. After all, dragging someone into the world of assassination wasn't a flippant decision. Had he left the boy at Marked, he would have been sold, beaten, and gods only knew what else. Tortured. And now, he was too close to Kritiker to escape; the best bet was to keep him close and shield him as much as possible. Aya might kill; he might have to kill in order not to be killed, but he could at least do it on a reliable team and with Yohji to watch his back.

It was the best he could do.

Of course, the blonde didn't intend to spring it upon him right away. They had to hear from Kritiker first (and Yohji had to get through the inevitable lecture from Manx). For now, he resolved to make Aya as fit a specimen as possible, or, he decided upon entering the living room, as least something close to normal.

He was on the floor again, kneeling beside the window, his empty coffee cup on the floor in front of him. Once again, he was looking out the window, and in the moment before his presence was noticed, Yohji caught a wistful longing on the light-washed face.

Then it was hidden away.

Yohji realized how far they had to go.

"Hey," he began, plopping into the plush chair just to Aya's right, where the boy could have easily sat and looked out the window. "You don't have to sit on the floor."

Silence.

"Were you sitting there the whole time?"

* * *

Aya barely resisted looking up at his owner as the man posed the inane question. Of course he had been sitting here; that's what he had been ordered to do: go to living room, sit, drink coffee.

"Yes, Master," he said without inflection.

"You didn't turn on the television or anything?"

_Of course not_, he wanted to defend himself, almost spoke the words aloud before realizing that the tone was not accusatory. An actual night's sleep seemed to have revived a bit of his innate impertinence, a quality that had gotten him whipped more than once. It was far better not to answer at all, though his owner didn't seem too pleased by the silence.

He was leaning forward to look at Aya's face, his blonde hair falling down around his own. It caught the sunlight and seemed to trap the golden light. He looked so alive. It was hard to think of being beaten by this man, but Aya did his best to keep the thought in mind.

"I'm sorry," Yohji stated, his face serious.

Aya looked up at that, instantly jerking his head back down. What game was his owner playing? It had to be some bizarre kind of test, but he was hard pressed to figure out the logic of it or what his responses were expected to be.

"I didn't even think that you'd be just sitting here," he sighed, and Aya tried desperately to decipher the tone. "I guess we've got a ways to go, eh Aya?"

When he looked up in the silence, Yohji smiled.

* * *

He waited, content to study the play of light over Aya's hair. What would the boy do when faced with the silence he seemed to mete out so easily? No, that wasn't quite right, Yohji knew. No doubt he had been trained to that state, silence often enforced by who knows what means. But Yohji liked to talk, and his princess was just gonna have to get on board with that. So, when no agreement was forthcoming, Yohji waited.

Aya stared at the floor for over a minute. Then, just as Yohji was going to abandon the trial as a failure, violet eyes rose cautiously to meet his own.

It was a little thing, but the human curiosity, mixed with uncertainty as it was, brought a smile to his face.

"Hungry?"

Silence rebuked his enthusiasm.

"Okay, here's the deal. You don't have to talk all the time, but I would really, really like it if you'd answer me when I ask you a question."

The boy's head instantly ducked into a low, kneeling bow.

"Forgive me, Master, I—"

"Yohji," he corrected. "Call me Yohji."

The boy nodded without rising; his forehead was almost touching the floor near his flat palms.

"What were you going to say?"

"I beg your forgiveness, Yohji-sama, I did not know you wanted me to speak."

The words were stiff and formal, and Yohji wasn't thrilled with hearing his name laden with the excessive suffix. Still, they were words, and that might be a step forward.

"It's fine, Aya. I mean, shit, we've got things to figure out about each other. Just, you know, answer me when you can."

"Yes, Yohji-sama," he responded obediently as he righted himself into what Yohji was beginning to think of as his default position, kneeling, head bowed, hands on his thighs.

"Great!" he attempted an encouragement, but it sounded shallow. Trying for something concrete, Yohji went again with, "Hungry?"

"Yes, Yohji-sama."

That was going to get old really quick.

"I know what my name is; you don't have to say it all the time," he warmed the comment with a smile, not that Aya was looking now. "And for my next complaint, you're too skinny; let's see if we can con Omi into feeding us."

~tbc~

Notes: Yohji's giving lessons on how to pick door locks. The first session begins at 6:35 am, five minutes after Aya gets into the shower. Please sign up using the review button below.


	13. Doubt Me

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews! Amet and blackorcid, a hundred thank you's for the multiple reviews; they make me feel special! You too Firefly, and after reading your review, I kind of wish I had given Yohji an "Oh no, you didn't" line, hehe. And thank to another wonderful reviewer, Kate the Night, and I'm so glad that Aya's coming accross as not completely broken; I've been struggling to get that in there. Maria, the boys want even more tasty cookies! And Ranma, this is already rather dialog-heavy compared to my normal style (I actually thought it was rather lacking in the description department *sweatdrop*), but I'll try to advance the plot as best I can. Because of all your attentions, I'm dedicated to updating this as quickly as possible. You all are great, and I hope you enjoyed the lock picking lessons (see below for your results).

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: Doubt Me

* * *

"Omi," Yohji appeared at the kitchen door, offering a charming smile that Omi could easily interpret: Yohji wanted a favor. Praying that after such a taxing morning it was only food or a change of shifts, he wearily acknowledged the blonde with a smile of his own. "We're hungry; can you fix us something?"

The 'us' made him think instantly of Ken (and thus consider the extravagant portions that would be necessary to meet that request), but the brunette was off to the park. It was only after thinking this through that Omi noticed the person standing silently behind his friend. His new mouth to feed. Not that money was an issue, but Omi really didn't need any more responsibilities, and Yohji wasn't renowned for his tender care of, well, anything.

Had Yohji even considered the serious possibility that this Aya was a spy? They didn't know a thing about his history. He could be dangerous for Weiss. Omi had gotten on board with the wounded rabbit that had temporarily lived in the garage, but he really couldn't fathom what the blonde was thinking, bringing home this particular stray.

Still, Omi had never been one to dwell on the negative. Perhaps they would just have to be cautious and leave it to Kritiker to reliably dig up the boy's past. No doubt it would soon be delivered to him in a tidy file. Yeah, right.

"Please?" Yohji tried when his request wasn't immediately granted. Omi had to grin at the slight desperation of the plea. Ever since the battle royale the older man had staged with the toaster, he was reluctant to engage the other appliances.

"Of course, Yohji-kun."

"You're the best, chibi! I hate to ask—"

Here Omi laughing inserted another silent 'yeah right'

"—but it's not fair that Aya's first meal here is a frozen dinner."

"It's fine. Aya-san and I need to have a chat, anyway. Please sit down and I'll fix lunch."

Shoving himself off the doorframe where he had been leaning, Yohji sauntered easily into the kitchen and took a seat at the table. The familiar routine, having gotten as far as Omi's gathering ingredients for a simple curry, was thrown off kilter when Aya soundlessly took a seat on the floor by Yohji's chair.

Frozen vegetables in one hand and instant curry sauce in the other, Omi stopped and stared. The redhead was kneeling on the floor as if he belonged there, looking small and carefully tucked into himself as he hands each clasp their opposite. And Yohji! The man simply shook his head and stared down at the boy.

It made Omi uncomfortable, someone sitting on the floor like some kind of pet. They'd all seen too much of that subjugation at the hands of dark beasts, not just in the recent files but scattered throughout their years as Weiss. He instantly regretted calling the boy a stray, even in his own head, and wanted to fix it as soon as possible. Dangerous plant or not, he was still human. And Yohji was just sitting there, a kind of displeased expression on his face as he lit a cigarette.

"Do something!" Omi finally blurted, adding another regret to his list as Aya started at the noise, regaining his statue-like decorum the next instant. "Don't let him sit there."

The boy looked up at that, but not towards Omi. His worried eyes focused on Yohji.

"He wants you to sit in the chair," Yohji sighed. "Remember?"

"I'm sorry, Master, I—"

"Master!"

"I'm working on it!" Yohji snapped back at him, making Aya cringe a little and hunker down near Yohji's feat, not scared precisely, more prepared and cautious. The way his head was tucked between his shoulders, it was like he was trying to protect it. "Aw, shit. Aya, c'mon; I'm not mad. Go on."

It was quiet, muffled by the way he was one again bowing apologetically, but there was desperation in the words, "I don't know what you want."

"Okay. First, get off the floor."

He was quick, Omi thought, to lift himself from such a position so easily.

"Sit in the chair."

That motion was more awkward, the way his fingers peeked out from under the long sleeve of Yohji's shirt to catch the back of the chair experimentally before he pulled it slowly from the table and settled hesitantly on its edge. His legs were held tightly together, his back rigid, and his gaze directed to the floor.

"See, now Omi's happy," Yohji indicated him with a wave of his cigarette. "Cook, Omi."

He nodded, finding it easier to follow the blatant direction as his brain tried to incorporate this reality into the information Yohji had provided them with earlier. His friend had purchased the boy at the target's auction, so he really was a slave, or, well, it was certainly hard to cast him as a wily infiltrator when actually looking at him. Omi wasn't closing that door completely just yet, but it looked like the kid had been more than mistreated. It would be hard to fake those jumps, the subtle trembling of the hands that he tried to hide by linking them together, or the constant expectation of reprimand. And his response to Yohji. It wasn't calculated; even from the meager exchanges Omi had observed, he could see the desperation to obey. The motivation, however, he couldn't fathom.

Surely Yohji hadn't said anything to threaten Aya.

Had he?

The ding of the rice cooker put an abrupt end to considerations, and he hurried to stir together the curry and serve three plates of it over the fresh rice. Truthfully, though, he wasn't very hungry.

~tbc~

Notes: Congratulations! You picked the lock and found one nekkid Aya trying to cover himself with an itsy-bitsy washcloth; review to knock the soap out of his hand.


	14. Deprive Me

Chapter Fourteen: Deprive Me

* * *

Aya hadn't thought about food since Schuldig had handed him over to Joji, but when the plate clicked against the table in front of him, his body decided to remember that it did, at some point, want to eat. The smell of the spicy sauce stirred his hunger into life, and long-deprived, it was loud and demanding, causing his stomach to make an embarrassingly audible noise and his instincts to perk up and hint emphatically that he devour whatever he could get his hands on.

But he waited, closing his eyes over the physical need and fighting it back with threats. He clenched his teeth when his stomach decided to voice its displeasure again. This was something he could deal with, watching others eat before him, having the food in front of him and being ordered not to touch it.

But his owner hadn't said that.

No. But Crawford said it was a rule, so Yohji would expect him to already know what to do. Though unsure of how widespread the system of servitude was, Aya had been informed more than once that Crawford was "educating" him to survive under its guidelines. For his own benefit, of course. Aya didn't believe that for a second, but he understood that the rules were meant to be obeyed and that Yohji's displeasure could result in her . . .

No, he couldn't think of that now; he didn't have the strength to fend off the painful memories while his body rebelled against him with its clamoring for food. He would just—

"Aya, eat," Yohji said, his own mouth full. And at Aya's curious, sidelong glance, "Eat."

* * *

"_Eat," Schuldig commanded as his fingers pressed the oily bit of meat against Aya's lips. He didn't want to take it, not like this, but he was so hungry. And wasn't it always a losing battle, holding out against this man?_

_//Yes, kätzchen, but the battle's half the fun.//_

_Aya turned his head away, the food swiping down his cheek to leave a greasy trail. He wanted to reach and wipe it away, but his hands were bound tightly by the leather cuffs which were in turn fastened to the sturdy ring on his collar. The damn leash was attached there too, it's beaten, leather length dropping down against his bare thighs and leading to the point where it was tied around the leg of Schuldig's chair, giving Aya little choice but to kneel patiently beside the man while he finished his own dinner._

_It was always a bizarre affair, and though Aya was brought in only at Crawford's whim, he would guess this strange parody of a family dinner occurred on a regular basis. Crawford was at the head of the table, an excessively long, heavy thing designed to seat twelve; to his left was Schuldig, Aya forced to kneel between them at the corner. The little one, Nagi, was to his right and Farfarello, who, as far as Aya could tell, chose his seat at random each time, was down on the far end making repulsive noises that the other three seemed to ignore. _

_There was the smell of food, some kind of chicken prepared by gods knew who. It piqued his instinct, making him want to snatch the bits from Schuldig's hand, and if he bit the man in the process, all the better._

_//I heard that.// He pressed the piece of meat against Aya's lips again, //Just remember, I bite back.//_

_When he opened his mouth to retort, Schuldig shoved the food inside. As Aya chewed, he watched with satisfaction._

"_Schuldig," Crawford drew both their attentions, but while the German looked up, Aya ducked his head towards the floor, tucking t just atop his bound hands. "Don't feed him from the table."_

"_Want me to get the—"_

_But Farfarello was already there beside them, crouching next to Aya and running rough fingers down the edge of his exposed spine. _

"_My turn to feed the kitty," he smiled, planting one knee on the ground and leaning forward until he could twist uncomfortably and look Aya in the eyes. "Here kitty, kitty." This time two bare fingers pressed roughly against his lips, trying to force their way inside. Aya turned away, more harshly than from the scraps, and the other man grabbed his hair hard, forcing his head back and shoving his fingers far enough in his mouth to make Aya gag._

"_Stop it," Schuldig demanded, taking Farfarello's wrist and withdrawing the offending digits. "If you're going to feed him, get the bowl."_

_Aya felt the hand in his hair relax, and then the Irishman scampered quickly away. Shifting forward, Aya coughed quietly and traced the cut along the roof of his mouth where Farfarello's fingernail hand erringly struck. He hated that, and given half a chance he would one day make good on his threat to bite the things off. He didn't understand why the crazy man did that in the first place, some sort of sick satisfaction, no doubt, but not one that Aya could easily decipher. _

_Not that he was given much time for deep consideration._

_A silver bowl clattered to the wooden floor next to him and Crawford leaned over to scrape the leftovers from his plate into it. _

"_You're getting thin. You should eat that."_

"_Are you going to untie my hands?" He already knew the answer to that. And true to pattern, the blow delivered to the side of his head was strong enough to send him off balance. _

"_Impertinent. It's early," Crawford took a breath, regaining his calm as he cleaned his glasses on a cloth napkin, "in another month, you'll be glad to get it."_

_He stood for a moment, looming over Aya who hadn't bothered to sit back up. There was no rage, only contempt as he kicked the boy hard in chest, causing him to gasp for breath and try to curl up, prevented by the short leash._

"_Clean him and bring him to my room. Ran needs another lesson."_

_He couldn't stifle the groan that escaped at those words, and he closed his eyes to listen to Crawford walk away with the others. Only Schuldig remained, kneeling next to him on the floor, untying the leash, and dragging him back into a sitting position , propped against the table leg. Another piece of chicken hovered near his lips._

"_Eat," Schuldig repeated, and when he turned away, sick and exhausted, "Eat, kätzchen, you'll need your strength."_

_

* * *

_

* * *

The chopsticks felt strange in his hand, and he had to pause to remember how to hold them. It surprised him, how such a basic thing, something he had done from childhood, had slipped from his automatic memory. But having dragged it forward, he picked up a bit of rice and placed it in his mouth.

~tbc~

Notes: Oops, Aya-kun dropped the soap (with a little help)…he's looking at it in deep debate…whatever will you tell him to do? Review and I'll pass your wisdom on to this poor, confused assassin.


	15. Decode Me

Notes: Thanks to an errant pass of a weed eater, my internet is down , so please forgive the slow posting of fics for a few days!

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: Decode Me

* * *

The food was good, warm and fresh and just a little spicy. At some point in his life, Aya had liked spicy food. Now, he struggled to remain polite, reminding himself to chew between bites and for god's sake not drink too much of the water Omi set before him. That was good, too, though. Schuldig forgot the water most of the time, maybe leaving some on one of the bowls, but just as often not.

But no matter how badly his body wanted it, Aya found himself full with barely a fourth of his serving consumed. He could have whined over the fact, because he knew in some ways he was still starving, but his capacity to eat it was severely diminished. Already the food was sitting heavily on his stomach and a few more bites might counter his desperation to get it in.

* * *

Yohji tried not to watch Aya eat, but he couldn't help it. It was an almost painful experience, seeing him take polite, little bites like he was attending some aristocratic banquet where slurping soup constituted a serious crime and strict social prohibitions prevented him actually laying it away proper guy style, chewing optional. Ken would have been an expert example, but Yohji could serve. Given a choice, the blonde would rather have Aya (and had honestly expected him to) pick up the plate and shovel the food into his mouth, not carry out this farce of graceful dining while they knew he was hungry.

When Aya stopped eating with more than half his plate still full, Yohji immediately suspected it as some extension of this theatric reserve. However, the sudden, wide-eyed question leveled at him refused all pretense in its urgency.

"Master," and having garnered Yohji full and immediate attention with this quiet plea, "May I use the facilities?"

It took a second for the request to register.

"You don't have to ask for that!" he barely avoided snapping. "Remember where it is?"

A nod. He had one hand clasped tightly over his mouth now.

"Go on."

Yohji was afforded another terse nod before the boy bolted from the chair, causing it to screech against the tile floor in his wake. He hurried to the stairs and disappeared, forcing Yohji to formulate an unpleasant theory that needed little confirmation beyond the quick dash of footsteps above their heads.

"Is he okay?" Omi asked, looking distraught despite his earlier coldness.

"Yeah."

Yohji hated it, but he couldn't scold the boy over his body's refusal of what was good for it. The older man had an uncomfortable familiarity with the feeling. A few months earlier, he had been a victim of what Kritiker called an "inadvertent consequence" and Yohji called a serious fuck up. He had spent several miserable days hunkered under the remains of the safe house, the first two of which (he later learned) the rest of Weiss hadn't even been notified of his "inconvenience." Three and a half days after the explosion, he had returned home exhausted, dehydrated, and starving.

After twelve hours of much-needed sleep, he had prepared a veritable feast of microwaveable delights and proceeded to gaze lovingly upon his spread before shoving the first of it in his mouth. After two trays, his stomach rebelled suddenly and dramatically. The worst of it was that even as he threw up, he was still hungry. And, stupid fuck that he was, Yohji had repeated this process twice before Omi limited him to warm liquids and sent him back to bed.

For almost a week he had alternated between ravenous, stuffed and sick, only slowly working his way back to regular consumption and, a rare occurrence for him, actually gaining three pounds over the next month.

Aya could stand to put on ten or twenty of his own, obviously. The boy looked more than half starved. Yohji could appreciate the slight impression of ribs his own frame offered, but the way Aya's stood out in visible ridges made him think of hospitals and feeding tubes; and the boy's thin wrists and ankles combined with the sharp relief of his hip and cheek bones reminded Yohji of third world hunger campaigns, and the emaciated form combined with Aya's Japanese features was an especially disturbing monument of abuse.

It was going to take time, all of it. Shoving his own plate away, Yohji prepared to stand, but Omi beat him to it.

~tbc~

Notes: Yohji is busy taking advantage of Aya's, ahem, position, but if you'd like to be entered in the random drawing for the soap, please click the review button below.


	16. Distract Me

Notes:

Miko: My internet is still down, and I live in a rather rural area—

Evil Hentai Slug: Middle of nowhere … not one gay bar anywhere, not one bar period! I'm dying here—

Miko:*smack slug with newspaper* He's still adjusting. Anyhow, we're posting today from the next town over (the one with the traffic light and the grocery store) in a Save-a-Lot parking lot. So we thank you for your patience and ask if you will continue to extend it to us. *attempts to execute a polite bow only to knocked down by the slug*

Evil Hentai Slug: Get me the hell out of here. I need pretty boys, alcohol, bookstores, internets at least! *holds SOS sign in one hand and a shot glass in the other*

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Distract Me

* * *

Omi waited patiently in the hall, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door and thinking of other times he had manned the same post. After a brief run of water, Aya appeared; he was pale, though when he noted another presence, a soft spread of pink touched his cheeks as he quickly looked away. His hands caught in the hem of the t-shirt and clung there as he waited silently for something.

"Okay?"

A tiny inclination of his head.

"Maybe I should've made something simpler to start with," Omi debated out loud, smiling and hoping to put the boy at ease. But Aya wasn't looking at him. He had backed against the doorframe, standing very still and looking incredibly young. Omi wasn't sure if it was the posture, the slightness of his frame, or actual youth that produced the image.

"How old are you, Aya-san?"

Slowly, his eyes rose, and Omi caught his first glimpse of the strange violet hue. They didn't quite meet his own, hovering somewhere near his chest.

"Aya-san?"

"Am . . ." The choice was deep but quiet when not tinged with urgency. "Am I allowed to talk to you?"

"Allowed? Of course! What did Yohji-kun tell you?"

Silence again. The boy looked like he wanted to say something, but he just held himself very still. Omi sighed.

"Do you want to go ask Yohji first?"

* * *

"Yohji-kun," Omi directed towards him.

Yohji looked up from his place on the couch to watch as Aya followed Omi stiffly into the living room.

"Question," the younger blonde pronounced his purpose. His smile, indulgent at first, faltered when Aya went silently to the end of the gray couch and promptly settled near Yohji's feet, his right cheek bare inches from the blonde's knee.

About to correct the behavior, Yohji quickly reconsidered as he watched a good deal of excessive nervous tension melt away from Aya's body. He had seen it before, but the opening of clenched fists, so the nails no longer bit into the palms, the softening of the sharp jaw that indicated an unclenching of teeth, and the slight settling of stiff shoulders had just then registered against the previous tightness of the boy's frame.

Perhaps this 'default' of correct posture and tucked legs actually made Aya feel better. He certainly looked more at ease than he had in the chair; no, it wasn't ease, not really, maybe more of a giving in. It was something he knew, something he could execute correctly without fear. And though Yohji realized it was a result of a training process he couldn't begin to fathom, the fact that Aya relaxed, even the tiniest bit, in his proximity, made him feel a little better too.

Cautiously, slowly, he reached out s hand with the intent of touching the red bangs that hung over Aya's face, perhaps to brush them back. The boy pulled his shoulders up stiffly, but he didn't flinch, and Yohji wanted nothing more than to let those silken stands slip through his fingers.

"Yohji-kun," Omi warned.

Dropping his hand, Yohji flopped back on the couch. He had expected Omi to claim the mother hen nest, but his timing was lousy.

"Aya-san wants to know if he can talk to me."

"Don't talk _for_ him, Omi." Leaning forward again, he laced his fingers and propped his elbows across his knees to look at Aya. "Wanna ask me something?" What Yohji wanted was to call him princess and maybe pet him a little.

A nod. Okay, attempt at natural conversation having failed, he went a step farther, "Okay, ask."

"May I speak to," he paused, staring hard at the rug as he searched for a term, "Omi-sama?"

"Yeah, I mean, talk to whoever you want—just don't call him that; it creeps me out. And don't even think about using 'Ken-sama'! That's Omi, I'm Yohji, and the other guy's Ken. Deal?"

"Yes." Yohji was pleased to see Aya visibly stop himself from adding an appellation. When nothing further came, Omi rushed to fill the silence.

"See, Aya-kun!," he smiled, slipping into familiar address, "I told you he wouldn't mind." Yep, that was the full-watt Omi-smile special, which, to Yohji's surprise, seemed a while lot less effective than Yohji-proximity for relaxing Aya. Yohji was fairly sure he shouldn't have been happy about that, but his day had been about a nine point six on the suck-o-meter (which sounded a lot more fun than it really was), and he was willing to take his victories where he could get them.

"So, Aya-kun," now released to talk, Omi seemed intent on making use of it, "how old are you?"

A cautious look to Yohji preceded the answer, "What . . . what month is it?" He seemed embarrassed to ask, though he fought to hide it by lowering his head. Omi shared a look with Yohji that was sad. Yohji was all too aware that this was just a trivial aspect of what they had done to the boy.

"September."

There was a silent, little sigh, nothing more than a rise and fall of his chest, "Sixteen, then."

Damn. He was a year younger than Omi. It took a sick shit to capture a kid, and Kaimo—no, Kaimo had just facilitated the buy. It was someone else who had bound this boy when he wasn't even grown. And for how long?

Omi seemed to be hinting along similar lines.

"Did you have a birthday?"

A nod, then, when Omi unexpectedly settled on the floor beside him in a comfortable slouch against the coffee table, "In July."

"Sixteen's a good number, isn't it? I just turned seventeen in April. It's close, right?"

A curious stare met his friendly tone. Yohji wondered how Omi had so quickly been granted the privilege of looking at Aya's eyes. Yohji had sat on the floor, too, first damn thing! And Aya hadn't much more than glanced at him; now Omi was getting full-on if unsure attention. How the hell did the chibi render himself so harmless? Yohji stared hard at him. Great, he couldn't even be properly jealous looking at that face.

"I think we'll be good friends," Omi assured.

That was part of it. He was talking to Aya like they already were, blatantly ignoring the awkwardness, overpowering it with happiness and the insistence that everything was absolutely fine. It was a method that caught Yohji's attention, but his mind kept going back to Aya's apparent discomfort in the chair, to his slight relief at returning to Yohji's side: would normal work with someone whose responses were so screwed up?

"Do you like ice cream?"

A nod, again, but Omi responded as if to vehement agreement.

"I'll get us some at the store. Yohji-kun's making me go anyhow. Do you want soup or something?"

Yohji caught Aya's eyes as they looked to him, flicking away the next instant.

"Get us some miso soup, Omi. Instant. And beer. We're definitely gonna need beer."

~tbc~

Note: To those of you who borrowed the pet Aya, thank you for returning him in such great shape. May I offer turns with this pretty stray Schuldig I found? You can sign up below.


	17. Detain Me

Notes: I've put out repairman bait, but he still doesn't come . . . thank you all for your patience.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Detain Me

* * *

His owner seemed lost in deep thought; either that or he was falling asleep. Sprawled back on the couch with his eyes closed, the tall man breathed rhythmically. Aya waited patiently in the silence, resting easily beside his owner's leg. It was the position least likely to cause offense, and, he had found with Crawford, least likely to result in serious injury if he could just keep his head down. While properly submissive in appearance, it also offered a tactical advantage; sitting close made it difficult for Crawford to stand quickly or achieve proper leverage for kicks. It wasn't impossible, but the precious seconds it allowed let Aya better brace himself.

He wondered when his new owner would punish him. He had committed more than one offense in the last few hours. Between talking without explicit permission and not knowing how to formulate a proper response when he was supposed to speak, he had really messed it up. And throwing up; Crawford would have given him to Farfarello for that disaster.

Aya took a deep breath, feeling nervousness tighten his chest. How was he supposed to do this? His new owner didn't go by Crawford's rules; everything was different, and Aya couldn't figure out the logic behind the system. He wanted to avoid being punished too severely since he wouldn't be able to keep his owner pleased if he was unconscious or unable to move for very long, and if Schuldig happened to come then it could be disastrous. He had made up his mind to withstand the punishment as best as possible, but he spent a lot of time anticipating the first blow; it would be horrible, he was sure, taking into account all the missteps he had made.

His owner had been angry. Aya had heard the frustration in his voice and knew it would be leveled at him soon. When would his owner snap? Would it be with hands or that wire? Aya dreaded the strange weapon, but the thought of injury by those hands made the feeling in his chest worse.

* * *

Omi's hand on his shoulder startled Yohji into wakefulness, and he had just enough presence of mind to obey the boy's request for silence. Shifting his brown grocery bag quietly to his hip, Omi lifted the finger from his lips to point. Soundlessly, Yohji turned to look, instantly understanding the smile Omi had been wearing.

Aya had fallen asleep. The stiffness, the tense anticipation of violence, the worry had all fallen away to leave a being who was, to Yohji's delight, unmistakably _cute_. He's seen the potentially beautiful part before (who wouldn't?), but with his head resting against the corner of the couch cushion and one hand tucked under his cheek, Aya, had his condition be slightly less pitiful, would have been very near adorable.

"Put him on the couch," Omi whispered, already picking up a throw from the chair.

Yohji nodded, gathering himself and standing. When the cushion shifted with his movement, amethyst eyes snapped open and Aya body jerked back into its rigid kneel, both hands lifted to shield his face like his was going to be hit.

It was good defensive technique, but hardly a way to wake up. Yohji lived in a house of assassins, guys who needed to watch their backs, but none of them did that.

"Hey, it's okay," Yohji reached for him, and Aya didn't jump back, just tensed his arms and shut his eyes. "I'm not gonna hurt you." He reached a little further, using both hands and taking hold of Aya's splayed fingers. They were shaking, but the boy let him lower them, moving only to turn his face to the side, obviously waiting for a punch.

"Come on. I said I'm not gonna hurt you."

He didn't look, didn't move. He was ready for it, and it hurt to be the root of such expectation.

"Please, Aya. Don't do that."

Yohji couldn't take it. He couldn't look at Aya, not like that. Dropping the boy's hands, he stood and turned away.

"Watch him."

"Huh?"

"Stay here, Aya."

* * *

Omi turned to watch Yohji walk away. "Yohji-kun, wait—"

"Master!"

It was a piteous call, and when Omi turned to meet Aya's eyes, he found them full of desperation. Omi thought he might cry.

"I'm sorry," his head fell forward, shaking a little back and forth. His hands hung limply in his lap. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Aya-kun, it's okay."

"I'm sorry. Please, don't get rid of me, please . . . please."

His breath was halting, becoming shallower with each word as he struggled to get them out. He was almost hyperventilating now, back hitching with each breath as he hunched over himself.

"Please," he begged.

"Shhh," Omi set down the throw and bag then knelt at the boy's side. Carefully, he reached a hand to rest it on Aya's shoulder; it was shaking.

"I'm sorry," a brief, high-pitched moan as he drew closer to the floor, "Come back . . ."

"It's okay. He'll come back."

"I'm so sorry. I'll do whatever," a gasp for breath, "whatever Master wants. I will. I swear. Don't tell," another, "don't tell."

It was like a panic attack, the scared, gasping breath; was he getting enough air? And the hurried, frantic spill of words fit the pattern too. He couldn't very well slap Aya to startle him out of it, and Omi wondered if he was going to have to sedate him. There was a dart tucked into his pocket, but with Aya's low body weight, there might be detrimental effects of using it. He had only one other idea.

"Aya-kun," he spoke sternly, "Stop it."

The babbling hushed immediately and Aya seemed to try to keep his gasping quiet.

"Sit up."

Omi let his hand fall away as the younger boy complied, slowly dragging himself up into a kneel. No tears streaked his face, only a lingering pallid quality of someone long sick. His breath was still shallow, but no longer a cause for concern.

"There. Now, let's—" It was Omi's turn to gasp. "Your arm!"

Aya's right hand clamped suddenly over his left forearm, but Omi had seen it. Just below the pushed up sleeve; there was blood. He reached, thinking to pry the fingers away, but they gave easily under his own. Setting the interfering hand aside, Omi examined the wound. Scratch marks, four deep parallel lines on the underside of the thin arm, filling with blood.

He instinctively looked to Aya's face, whether to check his eyes or glean an explanation, even Omi wasn't sure. It was suddenly blank, indifferent, a stark contrast to the panicked moment mere seconds before. The change was disconcerting, and Omi had to shake it off before taking up the familiar role of nurse. If he was to be honest with himself, he was glad to have something to do instead of consider that glazed expression.

"Let's get you cleaned up."

The blank eyes stared through him a moment longer, like Aya wasn't even there.

"Aya-kun?"

The purple orbs cleared mere seconds before they were hidden away, leaving Omi to look at disheveled red hair.

"Come on," he said. Without releasing Aya's arm, Omi stood. The redhead followed quietly to the kitchen and didn't protest when Omi deposited him in a chair, carefully stretching the injured appendage out on the table before releasing it. There was a small med kit under the kitchen sink, and he had it quickly out and on the table. Pulling a chair around, he sat across from the boy and began his work.

Wiping the opposite hand first, he cleaned away the blood with a damp dishtowel before swabbing the wound with alcohol. Aya didn't flinch even though it had to burn. The cuts weren't serious, but to go so deep with just his nails! They would certainly have to be cut.

"Do you . . . does this happen a lot?" He was trying to be calm, but Omi could feel his brows drawn together into what Yohji called his 'serious face.'

"No," the other whispered in a self-depreciating tone that hinted that he knew that Omi wasn't going to buy it.

"Good. Hold still, there." He offered a little smile and soft pat as he finished off the bandage. He looked up just in time to see Aya snap his head back up from an exhausted loll. The boy needed sleep; he wasn't well, either, though in how many ways Omi wasn't sure. Obviously he hadn't eaten well in a long time, and it made sense that he'd been deprived of sleep. Yohji had said something about wounds, too. Omi hadn't thought before, but to drop off in a strange place even with the expectation of being punished for the act, Aya was probably ready to fall down.

"Want to take a nap before dinner?"

~tbc~

Notes: Oh my, I do hope the little Schu stray didn't bite you too hard! Please include complaints and law suits with your review below.


	18. Ditch Me

Notes: Two chapters at once. Two reasons: one, I still don't like chapter sixteen (must revise!) and, two, I'm not sure when I'll be back in this lovely parking lot with internet access. Thank you all for the reviews; it gives me will to go to the internet when it will not come to me!

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Ditch Me

* * *

"You miss the kitty."

Schuldig looked up from his interlaced hands to study the pale man lingering in his doorway. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he scooted over to allow the other a place to sit should he wish to enter.

Eager for the invitation (and having mostly learned not to come in without it), Farfarello sauntered through the door. Instead of sitting beside the redhead, he threw himself onto the bed behind him, head resting just below the pillows and knees bent over the edge so his feet dangled. Drawing a knife from his vest, he lifted it towards the light and began to pick specks of…something from the blade.

"I miss the kitty." The inflection was one of a child whose favorite toy had been taken from him.

Silence met this news.

"Don't you? You liked him."

"He was interesting."

"Yes. And pretty. A pretty kitty."

Schuldig knew better than to attempt to sort a point out of Farfarello's meandering conversations. It was far better to sit back and enjoy the ride.

"Where'd you take the kitty, Schu?"

"Away."

The knife was suddenly lodged in the wall opposite the bed.

"I know that!" Farfarello hissed quietly. "Tell me where. I want him back."

"Talk to Crawford, then."

"No." A hand tangled in his shirt, yanking Schuldig down towards the Irishman. Almost nose to nose, he could feel Farfarello's warm breath as he spoke. "Crawford doesn't know. You know. Tell me."

"No."

Farfarello snarled and shoved him backwards before clambering from the bed. He hurried to the other side of the room, pulled the knife from the wall, and crouched on the floor. He balanced the point of the blade against the hardwood as he spoke.

"Always no, Schuldig. Always no to me. Why?"

"Maybe it hurts God." He didn't try to keep the sarcastic smile from his lips, and it found a twin in the other's expression.

Farfarello plunged the knife into his own thigh, making Schuldig grimace when he twisted it.

"Maybe it does."

* * *

Another man might have paced the room, but Yohji preferred to do his brooding laying down. Resting on his side in his large bed, he stared at the spot where he had put Aya and thought about the few peaceful moments just before he had gone to sleep the night before.

It helped.

Before, in the living room, he just had had to leave. He probably should have been stronger, but the way Aya looked! It dredged up unpleasant memories and Yohji found himself suddenly on the verge of losing control. The look on Aya's face, the expectation of being beaten, the undoubting surety that Yohji would hit that upturned cheek, the fact that Aya might actually want it: it had disturbed him. Worse, it had made him angry.

How many people had asked for his ungiven mercy?

He had decapitated more than one man in that very position.

In the moment, Aya had been the focus of his frustration. Upon reflection, Yohji had been able to better mete it out to those who deserved it, the ones who had made the boy what he was, but that hadn't been an instantaneous accomplishment. The last thing Yohji wanted to do was actually raise a hand against Aya, and while he didn't think it would come to that, any small display of violence might forever sever the thin thread of trust he was trying to build. Walking away might have done it anyway, but it was the better option.

Omi was going to kill him, though. It would probably be death by lecture.

Yohji lit a cigarette without getting up then drug the small, glass ashtray off the nightstand. He sat it carefully beside him on the bed and knocked the first ashes into it.

He would go back in a few minutes and try to deal with the situation. God, he hoped Omi had bought the beer.

* * *

"Where is he?"

Omi looked up from the stove, sighing a little at Yohji's harsh greeting. Really, the other had decided to leave in the first place, he could try a thank you.

"Aya-kun 's laying down. He needs rest."

"I know."

"And food, Yohji-kun. And clothes. And did you get him a toothbrush?"

Omi pouted a little as Yohji retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. He was going to have to stop buying those for him. Popping the tab, Yohji plopped down at the table, took one drink, and stood back up.

"Where's he at?"

At least he was concerned.

"On the couch. Don't wake him up!"

"I'm not. I'm not."

~tbc~

Notes: Ah, reader, look! I'm disciplining the Schu-chan *yanks hard on leash in her hand, Schu appears on the other end dressed in a green apron, collar, and not much else* He's going to clean for you all to make up for his naughty behavior. *offers leash* Please take turns nicely!


	19. Defuse Me

Notes: My internets . . . they're back . . . so happy. . .

Thanks for sticking with me guys; I really appreciate your reviews blackorcid, Firefly, ranma, amet (is it met, Amet, or amet? Just don't want to insult a great reader by getting it wrong!), macDhai, Kite, lelann37, sidhechaos (is that like the Irish sidhe? very cool name), Dananoda, and Kate the Night. Every time I see another review, I get warm-and-fuzzies, which I promptly feed to my muse and get more chapters in return. Thank you!

P.S. I'm so happy some of you wanted to play with Schu-chan . . . I kind of like him (and if you don't, go read "Lusting Red" --- it changed my mind in a snap) and I think maybe we should let him have a little fun in the fic, right?

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Defuse Me

* * *

Before dinner, Yohji had more than a sneaking suspicion that he'd messed things up.

After dinner, he was sure.

The entire meal alternated between lecture and interrogation, Omi playing headmistresses and Yohji involuntarily taking up the part of chastised troublemaker. He also remembered why Omi was their strategy guy: he was all details and reality, in this case mixed with a helping dose of compassion. He'd hidden this well at first introduction, but a mere eight hours later, now that he'd decided to accept Aya as part of their group, Omi was all about making sure he was well cared for.

No one would suffer neglect at the hands of mommy Omi; Yohji said as much and found himself whacked upside the head with a well-aimed soup spoon.

"Be serious, Yohji-kun!"

Now where had he heard that before?

"You can't just drag him around. He's got to rest. Oh," he jumped up suddenly, opened a drawer, and, as if by magic, produced an impressive stack of papers. "I did some research; this might help."

"Uh--"

"Read it."

"Alright, alright."

Omi nodded, all smiles again. He went to the stove as Ken and Yohji cleared the table. After the chore was completed (or at least reduced to a sink full of dishes), Yohji looked over Omi's shoulder to investigate the simmering pan of clear liquid. It smelled like chicken.

"Chicken noodle soup?" he asked.

"Broth," Omi stated, lifting the spoon up for Yohji to try it. It was bland and dull, like it was made with too much water. He made a face.

"Can't you make it stronger?"

"He needs it like this," Omi asserted, flicking off the burner and pouring the liquid into a mug; there was a cartoonish picture of a fluffy, orange cat on one side that appeared to be smiling. Next he began to think out loud, and Yohji felt it was more of a teaching exercise for his own benefit than an actual working out of problems. "What should we give him to drink?"

"Ginger ale?" It struck Yohji as a savvy choice, and something that came highly recommended from his own mother.

"Hm," Omi apparently did not approve. "I don't think carbonation is a good idea. Is there any juice?"

Yohji checked the fridge, quickly dismissed the orange juice as too acidic and came up with cranberry-apple instead. Why it was in there in the first place, he couldn't fathom, but the seal was unbroken. Had Omi bought it at the store?

"Perfect!" the younger boy praised. Yohji rolled his eyes, going to get a glass. He had plenty of real talents; Omi didn't need to compliment his ability to find some planted juice. Deciding that his mood could use some improving, Yohji fished out a cigarette and lit it before taking down a clear glass and filling it with the red liquid.

For once, Omi didn't tell him not to smoke in the kitchen.

The chibi took the glass and settled it on a tray with the broth, added a napkin, and stood back to stare at it.

"Good?" he asked.

"Sure." Yohji felt his opinion was a moot point.

"Okay, let's get him up," he picked up the tray and walked ahead. Setting it on the coffee table quietly, he warned Yohji (lingering in the doorway), "Gently, Yohji-kun."

Stepping forward, Yohji took a moment just to look.

Aya was curled up on the gray sofa, the soft, white throw draped over his legs. One hand clutched at its edge, the other held tightly to his long bangs. He faced the cushion, seemed to be trying to snuggle into them; even with the blanket, Yohji thought he looked cold.

Rounding the couch, Yohji carefully avoided the temptation of his hair and reached to touch his shoulder. Again those strange eyes snapped open, and again the hands sprang to protect his face.

"Aya—"

Well, he should have expected that. The minute the name fell from his lips, Aya slipped from the couch and dropped to his knees directly in front of Yohji, pressing his forehead to the ground and apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Master. I did not mean to make you angry. Please punish me."

"Aya," he began, but in the pause he took for breath, the other continued.

"Please," he asked, the formality of his speech falling away like an excess garment, "punish me. Don't send me back."

It was the same voice, the same plea from the night before.

"I'm not sending you back, Aya. Get up."

The redhead got quickly to his feet, standing with his head lowered before him. Yohji's gaze swept over him, noting the tousled hair, the thick collar, and the trembling shoulders. Was the boy cold, or was he afraid? There was a sinking suspicion in Yohji's stomach that told him it was primarily the latter and that, despite his wish otherwise, it was not a fear of being hit.

_Punish me._

_Don't send me back._

Yohji took the cigarette from between his lips and put it out in the nearby ashtray. Then he tried to get Aya to look at him, to return his smile, but the boy was staring at the floor, no better than that morning. His own attempt at cheerfulness fell through.

"Look, I'm sorry. I'm not going anywhere; you're not going anywhere. Okay?"

Not even a nod, and the trembling.

"What are you afraid of?"

Silence.

"Please answer me, Aya. I can't fix it if I don't know. What are you afraid of?"

"Disappointing you, Master."

The name rang false again, having a light catch to it, but there was something true in the statement that made Yohji answer it.

"You won't."

The tension only grew in the silent room, and Yohji was mere seconds away from lighting another smoke when Omi stepped in.

"Dinner!" he announced, plopping down on the couch and patting the middle cushion as an indication for Aya. The redhead looked briefly up to Yohji, who nodded and took a seat at the other end, causing Aya to rush to sit in the middle. Seeing him sit on the sofa and not the floor made Yohji almost proud, and his smile returned as Aya watched Omi curiously while the chibi lifted the mug from the tray and handed it to him.

Then his eyes were fleetingly back on Yohji. The blonde sighed, but the smile lingered on his face.

"Eat, Aya."

~tbc~

Notes: Schu and Aya need a playdate and I'm rather busy with the fic and all; might I trouble you, kind reader, to watch them? It's a bit difficult since you must keep them from being too rough, or at least from leaving marks that Yohji will notice. If you're brave enough, please volunteer using the review button below.


	20. Discipline Me

Chapter Twenty: Discipline Me

* * *

After a nerve-wracking meal caught between his owner and the boy who he assumed was a keeper of sorts, Aya was allowed to set down the dishes. He'd managed almost half the broth and slightly more of the juice, listening carefully to Omi's insistence to take little sips. He appreciated the direct orders the boy gave, but the strange attempts at conversation were confusing.

Still, the keeper was easier than his owner.

What did the man want?

He had promised not to send Aya back, so surely the use would soon become evident.

"Time for bed."

Omi nodded, scurrying off with the dishes.

* * *

"_You're late," Crawford stated, pulling his tie loose as he turned to face them._

_Schuldig propped himself in the doorway after giving Aya a push in. The redhead stood just inside the room, hands bound behind him, attached to the opposite elbows to keep his arms bent and out of the way; he was naked save the collar around his neck. He stared hard at the floor, hoping to avoid blows so soon. He couldn't avoid what would happen later, but Crawford wouldn't do that with Schuldig in the room._

"_He's energetic tonight."_

_There was silence, and Aya imagined a look was passing between them._

"_Kneel," Crawford ordered. Aya dropped silently to the floor, feeling the carpet rub at his raw knees. That pain was nothing. With his head tucked under, he could just look back to see Schuldig's brown shoes. The man was waiting for something, lingering longer than usual. _

_Maybe they had something to discuss. Maybe Crawford wouldn't have time for Aya._

"_Get out."_

_Aya's meager hopes fell. There was a second of hesitation, maybe another look, then the brown shoes turned and disappeared out the door._

_//Later.//_

_He didn't know what to make of the single word; was it dismissal or promise?_

_There wasn't any time to consider it. Crawford's belt hit him hard across his bare back, making him clench his teeth over a gasp of pain. The wide leather stung again before he could catch his breath. Twice more it hit him before Crawford spoke._

"_Get up. Bend over, here." _

_A quick glance up confirmed the direction, and Aya went to the square, black ottoman. It was low, and he had to kneel beside it before shifting his body over the stool, laying his stomach on its flat surface and letting his legs dangle awkwardly, knees almost on the ground._

"_Put your ass in the air."_

_He complied shifting forward so that his genitals were squished against the top of the ottoman and his butt was presented to Crawford. Now his head was hanging down and the blood began to gather there. His arms stretched awkwardly behind him._

"_You looked at me, Ran. I was going to go easy on you, but you've ruined it. Too bad."_

_The belt fell over his lower back, once, twice, then over his upper thighs. Then, taking a step closer, Crawford paused only a second, but Aya knew it was coming; he clenched his teeth, hard, so he wouldn't bite his tongue._

_The belt landed solidly on his bottom, a sharp stinging bite of leather across the sensitive flesh. There was no time to recuperate as the swings came one after another; Aya didn't count, focusing only on getting through the bright sting that accompanied each snapping sound. _

_By the time Crawford stopped, even the air was painful against him and he trembled with pain._

"_It's bright red. Aren't you ashamed, Ran? Laying there with your red ass up, offering it to me. What would your father say?"_

_He tried to summon Aya-chan's face, but then he heard the quick drag of a zipper.

* * *

_

* * *

Yohji shut the door quietly behind them.

~tbc~

Notes: We've been paying too much attention to the pretty boys, and the Evil Hentai Slug is jealous. Could you give him a review-cookie so he'll let me keep Aya in the collar a bit longer?


	21. Deliver Me

Chapter Twenty-One: Deliver Me

* * *

The collar was a stiff reminder of what would come.

Aya stood silently a few feet from the bed, hands clutching at the hem of the blue shirt, expecting it to be ripped from him in the next instant. His owner would do it now, like Crawford. That's what Aya was for, his purpose here, and the reason his owner had spent so much money. He almost lost his breath at the thought of being pressed under this man, but he prevented it, biting hard on the inside of his lips and telling himself to stand still and be quiet so he didn't make it worse.

It would hurt enough.

He knew that, had known that before. Crawford had told him it was supposed to, and in Aya's experience it was the truth. He didn't know too much about normal lovemaking, but the version carried out with slaves was a painful process of blood and blows. And now Yohji would do that to him.

His second.

He'd only been with Crawford. Several times Aya had thought Farfarello would take him, but the man had been prevented by both Schuldig and Crawford. And his redheaded keeper didn't seem inclined to have him that way.

Crawford had been enough. He had taught Aya his lessons with swift brutality.

Now they ran through Aya's head, a sick litany of things to do with his new owner.

He would go where the man said. He would not try to cover himself. He would not struggle against the bonds. He would not touch the man unless told to do so. He would not bite. He would not be dirty. He would follow directions. He would open when told. He would not disobey . . .

He was so tired.

He would not disobey. To do so would compromise her safety, would kill her. Aya could take it for her.

The small attempt at encouragement brought an unpleasant lump to his throat and he swallowed over it. He could do this.

"Aya?"

The order was coming. He would need to strip, be bound, let his owner take him.

It shouldn't hurt already, but it did. It hurt the way Schuldig liked, inside.

* * *

"Okay?"

There was no response to his query, and Yohji paused mid-pajama search to approach the other. Something was wrong; he was, if possible, more pale.

"Sick?"

A tiny shake of the head indicated that wasn't the problem. If Yohji could see his eyes, he might have a chance of deciphering the issue, but they were riveted to the ground,

"C'mon, sit on the bed and talk to me."

The thin shoulders shook, but Aya went with minimal reluctance, settling himself near the corner of the bed, long arms dropped between his spread knees and head hanging; it was the most dejected Yohji had seen him, and while any display of emotion assured him that Aya was still human, this sad-looking posture wasn't pleasing.

Yohji took a seat close to him and felt the boy tense, pulling in on himself. His hands clasped one another, tying, Yohji thought, to stop them from shaking.

Once the fear registered, it took all of two seconds for Yohji to put the pieces together; deciding what to say was the hard part.

"No!"

Aya jumped at that.

"Shit, I mean, fuck, Aya—I'm not gonna hurt you!"

The boy nodded, but obviously it was done in disbelief. Yohji wondered how many men had told him the same thing before they did just that.

"Look at me, please," he reduced his tone to a soft request.

The eyes were disclosed, meeting his own with hesitation. Yohji's instinct told him to grab Aya and hug him as tight as possible; it was what the older man would have wanted if their situations were reversed. He kind of wanted it now. But he held himself in check, thinking such an action would be misconstrued as an advance. After all, he could think of nothing specific he had done to give Aya the idea that he wanted to have sex with him; in fact, the idea of taking Aya like that, pounding against that frail-looking, unwilling body made him almost physically ill.

But the boy didn't know that.

Yohji forewent the hug with firm resolve, but not touching was harder. It was his nature to be touchy, constantly leaning on Ken, poking Omi, or brushing against pretty strangers should they show a little interest. He comforted the same way, by taking a hand or arm, dolling out hugs willingly to his friends and simply sitting shoulder to shoulder with a hurting comrade. Sexual touch he could put away, but not to make some casual contact stressed his restraint.

"I don't want to do that with you."

The eyes fled, and Aya's throat worked twice before he spoke.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No! No," he repeated it more calmly the second time. His hand reached, then jerked back. "Listen to me, look here."

Aya did.

"We've got to get this straightened out, so keep your eyes here, okay?" With two fingers, he gestured at his own eyes as he turned to stare at the redhead. He needed the indicator of Aya's reactions, especially when he was holding himself so still. Again, Aya did as he was told, though clearly uncomfortable.

"I didn't bring you here to be a, a slave. I don't do that. I brought you because . . . well," he ran a hand through his hair, tugging out the loose tie and tossing it on the nightstand. "I don't know. You asked me to, right?"

"Yes, Ma—Yohji."

"Right. Good. I didn't want to leave you there, but I don't – I'm not the kind of person who does that."

He stared at Aya, wondering if it was getting through and deciding it was not. Time to apply a blunt instrument; Yohji silently told himself to think like Ken and forged ahead.

"I won't force you. I won't order you around. I won't hurt you. Understand?"

"But—" The rebuttal was cut off, the eyes jerked away, then came quickly back. One hand came up to yank hard on a red eartail in some kind of nervous gesture Yohji didn't like. But it was a matter for another day; they had bigger issues.

"But what?"

"I . . . my Master, my other Master, he . . . if I don't," he paused, took a breath, and tried again after several seconds of Yohji's silent invitation. "I have to serve you."

"Why?"

"You own me!"

It was the first sign of exasperation, and though it was immediately followed by a gasp at his audacity, Yohji's mind leapt to grab on to it. He had heard hints before, but there was definitely more than servile grace beneath the dust in those eyes.

"I don't have to, Aya."

Yohji caught it before it could become vocalized; the boy was instantly terrified.

"Wait, shhh. Listen. I'm not sending you back."

The wide eyes stayed in place, but the shaking of the shoulders increased. Yohji sighed and chose his words carefully.

"I don't want a slave, Aya. I brought you here to, huh, rescue you, I guess. You can stay, if you want. I'd like you to. But you don't have to do this anymore. I should have said so sooner; I just thought, well, I thought you kinda knew."

"Please . . ."

The eyes were closed. Yohji waited.

"Please let me serve you." He didn't want to say it; Yohji saw the strength it took to get out the words. He looked so tired.

"Why?" He honestly couldn't understand, and his own pleading frustration soaked the word. Was it conditioning? The exasperation told him no; cold acceptance was not what Aya had going on. Yohji felt it.

"Master, my old Master, he'll know if I don't behave, my keeper will see and then—_I have to_!"

"Okay, okay. We can do that," he calmed, pulling anything he could to combat the fear he was looking at, "But, why?" Yohji repeated; this time he did take Aya's hand, clasping the frail thing between his own. It was cool to the touch and tense.

Aya made a desperate, quiet sound somewhere between moan and keen. They'd gone too far for retreat, and Yohji hated himself for it, but he needed to know.

"Tell me. Now."

"He has her."

Leverage. That was it. That was why this boy was in the clutches of such a strange institution. Whoever did it would die, Yohji decided without tint of doubt or regret or play. He would take their fucking heads off.

"Her? You said that last night. Who is she?" Who was worth this kind of torture? And who had her and in what circumstance? His mind was on Weiss, now, rescue and kill. In and out. And Aya was free.

"Who is she?" he repeated, then, "Tell me."

Belatedly, and a little disgusted at himself, he added, "Please, Aya."

The boy said something, but it was too quiet. Yohji brought the captured hand closer to himself, unconsciously rubbing the smooth skin of the wrist.

"Who?"

"My sister."

~tbc~

Notes: The slug loved the cookies, but now the boys are jealous! Perhaps if you pet them a little…


	22. Detonate Me

Notes:

Miko: We've reached the 25,000 words mark, and people are still reading! I love you guys, and I'll keep working hard at this!

Subaru-san: So, how's that serious novel going?

Miko: Shut up. I'm worshipping the readers *bows to readers and hands out celebration cookies with lemon icing*

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two: Detonate Me

* * *

"Your sister?"

Aya nodded; the hand pulled a tiny bit, but went instantly still. Yohji let it go, and the younger man drew it back as he wrapped his arms around himself.

"Is she," he swallowed, not liking the idea forming in his head, "doing what you are?"

No, the shake of the head said. The subject was obviously sensitive, or maybe forbidden. Aya was trying to curl away, getting distant.

"And they keep her so you'll stay like this?"

"Yes," it was almost a hiss and Yohji realized that a good deal of anger was mixed with the trepidation; Aya was trying to hold it all back. "Maybe," the boy amended more quietly; he was still seething, and pronounced this like it was a long-shattered theory, "I'm in debt to them."

Yohji turned the subject in his mind, sorting out the details that he could: it was a paltry collection, but even so, there were misfittings. The girl's captivity made sense if those in charge desired Aya's servitude, but why keep her if he was to be sent off to serve someone else? That would be a financial boon, but then why continue to check on him?

"But . . . if they have a hostage, why sell you?"

Yohji hadn't been there to witness the torture, hadn't seen the blows are heard the screams, but when something in Aya broke free, he saw them all reflected in the bright flash of pure anger that shot through those violet eyes. His voice was the same: sharp and pained and angry.

"_I don't know!_"

He glared with an unexpected ferocity that spoke of death.

Yohji knew Aya could be Weiss.

Then it was over, and the quiet, hesitant Aya was there, repeating some kind of too-formal apology that Yohji was too surprised to listen to.

* * *

He was exhausted. It had taken well over an hour to get Aya into PJs, assure him he should be in the bed, and lay still while he went to sleep. He'd checked the boy's back somewhere in the midst of this fiasco, noting the new bandage on his left arm but, at the time, he thought it best to keep quiet about it. Yohji had also planned on ignoring the profuse apologies, but after Aya ended up on the floor for the second time, he accepted what he had to, and told the boy to, for gods sakes, just get in the damn bed. Then it was his turn to apologize for yelling.

He'd laid there stiff, distrustful, and awake each time Yohji cracked an eye to check; it continued until the blonde grew tired of his own feigned sleep. He was about to broach conversation again when he looked a last time to find the boy finally and suddenly in the clasp of exhausted sleep.

Recalling the chilled hand, Yohji had added another heavy blanket to his bed, and now Aya was buried under it. He faced Yohji, but only the top of his head was visible as he curled into a kind of fetal position beneath the comforter. His bedmate was just happy to see him asleep.

Yohji rolled carefully onto his back, drug his arms from beneath the hot wrap of the covers, and tucked them behind his head. His white t-shirt pulled slightly at his shoulders, and, unused to sleeping clothed, he again debated pulling it off, ultimately dismissing the idea in favor of Aya's meager comfort.

And it was meager. Yohji had no real indication that he had put the boy any way at ease. He would make it a point to try harder; he needed Aya to find some level of comfort there, not just for Yohji's own peace of mind, but in order to advance any type of plan to incorporate him into Weiss.

Some rules might be necessary, not just the don't-sit-on-the-floor rules, but even a few more unsavory kinds of basics. After glancing at Omi's ever-relevant research, Yohji found more than one psychologist suggesting a slow transition back to full self-sufficiency and independence. Aya might need a structure he was used to, modified of course, and much more humane, but something he could grasp until Yohji got it through his pretty red head that life would be much more attractive as a free man.

That idea clearly terrified him at the moment.

Yohji hadn't exactly counted on a long-term project, but it looked like he had one.

Putting nice clothes on Aya and dropping him in the shop, well, the disaster was too easy to imagine, and might result in something as bad as a mental breakdown.

He could do better than that. Yohji resolved, not for the first time, to be more observant. Really, he might enjoy it; the PI part of his brain liked the occasional workout, actually clamored for it when it wasn't overtly sated with alcohol and sex. And, though he was loathe to admit it, those things weren't giving him quite the thrill they once had, not that he was going cold turkey anytime soon, certainly not. But maybe a minor detour wasn't all bad.

The first day had been rough, very near the disaster he had predicted, but it would get better. Yohji would watch, Omi would help, Ken would come around, and Aya would get better: simple.

Yohji smiled at his own optimism, knowing his life didn't really work that way. But he would help where he could, and that started by laying out some rules Aya could understand.

But what rules? And how could Yohji create a semblance of normalcy with such regulations passing between them?

He set his mind hard upon the problem, but soon his late night caught up with the early morning and he fell asleep.

* * *

It was still dark.

He didn't know what time it was, and though he could have checked the clock again, Yohji didn't bother.

For the third time in as many hours, Aya was crying in his sleep. It was a quiet, tremulous sound he made, muffled more so by the hands curled near his face.

The first time Yohji had flicked on the light and lifted the covers, watching the pale, drawn face, fascinated at the crystalline tears that leaked from beneath red eyelashes. Without thinking, he had reached to touch one shaking shoulder, then, just as his fingers brushed the blue fleece of Omi's borrowed sleepwear, he remembered Aya's reaction to being awakened in such a way.

He was about to jerk away, but the boy hadn't woken up.

So Yohji had risked it, letting his long fingers rest over the thin shoulder, listening as the soft crying faded, leaving the room quiet save the beating of his own heart. It had been too loud for his liking, and Yohji had quickly withdrawn his hand and settled back to sleep.

This time, he didn't turn on the light. He reached, carefully, and laid his hand once more in its place on Aya's shoulder. And once more, the crying subsided.

~tbc~

Miko: Quick, say something clever!

Slug: *grins*_There once was a boy out of luck_

_Mired in the world's awful muck_

_His pants did expand_

_So I leant him a hand_

_And showed him just how to –_

Miko: *slaps her hand over the slug's mouth* Nevermind. Please leave a review…or at least something better than that!


	23. Wake Me

Chapter Twenty-Three: Wake Me

* * *

"Yohji-kun," a voice whined, loudly, from the other side of his door, "I have to go! You're gonna make me late again!"

Reluctantly dragging his mind into the world of the waking, Yohji had almost summoned his normal reply when, upon opening his eyes, he found purple ones looking back at him. Still laying on his side, Aya studied him from the other half of the bed. Yohji did what he always did when waking up with someone: he gave his most dashing smile and said good morning.

The eyes fled. About to give a lesson on the proper reply, he was interrupted by the less pleasant task of dealing with Omi.

"Yohji-kun!" The doorknob turned, admitting the boy who had, apparently, designs on waking Yohji physically. "You're up." He was pouting now, hands on his hips. "You've got to go to the shop."

"Yeah, yeah. Ten minutes. You go on," the blonde suggested, shifting into a sitting position and fumbling for his shades on the nightstand. For once this action wasn't motivated by a hangover but rather force of habit. Only when they were properly in place did he pay attention to the aggravated chibi who was, in turn, paying attention to Aya. Said Aya was, Yohji could clearly see, trying to decide whether he ought to be on the floor.

"Don't even think about it," Yohji warned him before addressing the intruder. "Omi, I'll be down in ten. Aya, stay there for a second."

Having sorted out his complicated menagerie, Yohji tossed his legs out of the bed, stood, and popped his back before scratching idly at the cloth of the t-shirt. Why anyone would willingly sleep in clothes was beyond him. Given a choice, he might not wear them at all.

"Omi, shoo," he motioned the other from in front of his closet and grabbed his white jeans from their conspicuous place on the shelf. Omi looked at him doubtfully.

"I'm up, I'm up. Clothes, see? Glasses, see?"

"Ten minutes," Omi warned before he turned and walked out, leaving the door open as an incentive.

Yohji really didn't care. Quickly locating a white cashmere sweater, he laid it over his arm with the jeans and turned back to the bed.

Aya had done as he was told and was laying quietly between the covers, eyes focused on his own hands which rested a little away on the white sheets.

"Okay. Here's the deal. I gotta go to work before Omi has a coronary, and I'd like it if you'd stay in bed today."

No response. Yohji rolled his eyes.

"Understand?"

"Yes."

"Great, okay. So, you know, you can go the bathroom, clean up, whatever, but then come back here and rest. Sleep if you can."

"Yes, Yohji."

Why did his name still sound like Master? Yohji dismissed it, telling himself to concentrate on the progress it represented.

"I'll come—" he paused, reconsidering. It might sound like he didn't trust Aya or that he was following up an order if he said he's be back to check in on him. "I'll bring you some breakfast later."

A nod.

Yohji looked back as he reached the door; Aya's eyes were closed, but he was much too tense to be sleeping.

* * *

Mondays at the Koneko weren't too busy until mid-afternoon, and Yohji really didn't make it a habit to ever be too busy, so when he spent the morning scribbling distractedly in a notebook, Ken didn't take particular notice. Between flirting with the few ladies who came in and fixing a couple of orders, the blonde had been planning. True, his skills weren't on par with Omi's, but having a written record helped.

At nine he'd taken an early break to bring Aya breakfast. Finding written instructions from Omi on the fridge, Yohji heated a little both in a bowl (though really, he was sure no one wanted chicken-flavored water for breakfast) and poured some juice in the kitty mug he found resting in the drying rack. He added a spoon and a napkin to the tray and started up the stairs.

The door was as he left it, and Yohji entered quietly to find his charge curled up and dead to the world.

Setting the tray on the nightstand, he left a quick note on the napkin and went back to work.

* * *

He set the plastic clock hands to one-thirty and hung the out to lunch sign on the shop door.

"Take out?" Ken asked, shucking his apron.

In the process of taking a cigarette from his pack in preparation of going outside, Yohji shook his head no.

"Errands," he explained.

Ken shrugged.

* * *

Yohji pulled the cap off the deodorant and sniffed it; making a face, he capped it and put it quickly back on the shelf before scanning for another one. Finding the next one to be slightly spicy but not too strong, he tossed it in the plastic basket that dangled from his left arm and set about finding a lotion that didn't scream cheap drugstore.

* * *

He returned home affirmed in his regular purchases from upscale shops and vowing to take Aya to the same as soon as possible. Checking his watch, Yohji realized he was due back in ten minutes, giving him roughly twenty-five before Ken came yelling for him to get his ass down there.

He deposited his plastic bag on the kitchen table and threw together a quick ham sandwich to eat while he made Aya's lunch. He'd left the tray upstairs, not to mention the kitty cup, so he settled for his own green coffee mug for the broth and, picking up a plate, set it there with a few saltine crackers. It was deviation from Omi's plan, but Yohji would feel better if he could get Aya back to solid food.

Shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth, making it too full, he chewed as he climbed the steps, plate balanced easily in his hand.

Aya was still sleeping in the dim room, though an investigation of the nightstand proved he had been awake, at least briefly. The napkin-note had been moved to the side of the tray, and about half the juice was gone; less of the broth had disappeared. Yohji wondered if Aya found it as tasteless as he did and was glad he'd brought the crackers.

During his shuffling of various items on the nightstand, Yohji noticed the stir of the covers and looked to find Aya regarding him warily.

He smiled; the eyes were instantly turned away.

"You know, Aya, I like it a whole lot better when you look at me."

That didn't seem to garner an official response, but a few minutes later, Yohji was once again surveyed by violet eyes.

Again he smiled, this time as he settled onto the bed, crossing his legs and turning to face Aya to proffer the green mug.

"Here. Sit up."

The boy shifted up against the headboard, reaching cautiously for the cup and holding it with both hands. He sipped at it once, then looked to Yohji for approval; the blonde had to resist hugging him. It was the first time he hadn't had to tell the boy to eat what was given to him.

Feeling like he was feeding a skittish gazelle in a petting zoo, Yohji picked up a cracker and offered it. Aya was careful not to touch him when he took it. Balancing the mug on one thigh, he brought the cracker to his mouth and took a small bite, chewing almost silently.

Yohji tried not to grin too widely.

"Yohji!" the summons interrupted the quiet moment, making Yohji sigh. For once, he was quick to obey, not wanting Ken to come up and make Aya nervous, not when things were going so well.

"I gotta go. Eat what you want, then back to sleep, okay?"

"Okay, Yohji."

Yohji spent the last three hours of his shift with a smile that baffled even him in its persistence.

~tbc~

Hm, Schu has found a bunch of suckers…that can't bode well. Review and tell him to share!


	24. Watch Me

Chapter Twenty-Four: Watch Me

* * *

Yohji had hoped to implement his plan the second night of Aya's stay, but each time he had checked on the boy, he had found him sleeping so soundly that he couldn't bring himself to disturb his rest. He conferenced with Omi over Chinese takeout, and both decided it would be best to keep the redhead in bed for at least another day or two.

So the next forty-eight hours passed in much the same way. Aya's body seemed to need rest desperately, and he slept both day and night, interrupted only by meals prepared by Yohji, brief trips to the restroom, and short spells of crying. Though he was never truly awake during the latter, Yohji couldn't imagine he was resting easily.

Throughout the process, Aya seemed to become a little more at ease with him, but only as much as to cease waking immediately to a defensive stance; there was still a good deal of hesitation and wary regard. Having now read Omi's document stack (and its two supplemental additions) in detail, Yohji knew better than to expect rapid recovery or anything like normal responses for quite some time. Really, compared to some of the horror stories presented in the research, their progress seemed good.

It made him wonder how long Aya had been in captivity. He showed residual signs of abuse, the almost-cowering from a raised hand (something Yohji was quickly learning not to do even by accident), a general inability or unwillingness to engage in conversation, and, according to Omi, a tendency towards self-harm that was particularly disturbing and hinted at an inability to manage stress. But, he didn't seem completely tame or accepting of his subservient status; he wasn't blank or dull or hopeless, and, though obviously badly beaten, his body showed few signs of permanent damage that long years of servitude would surely create.

There had to be a story behind it all, no doubt revolving around the mysterious sister.

Yohji needed to ask Aya some questions about that, both for his recovery and for a potential rescue of the girl. He wondered if she'd be as beautiful as her brother, a little waifish thing with that deep red hair and big, violet eyes. Maybe. Whatever she looked like, no girl, no human being, deserved to be in the company of such monsters; there was no guessing at the kinds of tortures they put her through.

Weiss might look for her, at least do some preliminary research, if he had a name to go on. Perhaps he could get that much of Aya's past without delving in to the whole unpleasant subject. Not that any of it was going to be pleasant.

Yohji shook his head and tried to focus on the arrangement of peonies he was making for a giggling schoolgirl. Tying it off with a yellow ribbon, he handed it over with a patented Kudou smile, sending her tittering to the register.

He glanced to the clock to find it read just a bit after five; there was still another hour, then cleanup, before he could check on Aya. He caught Omi's gaze by accident, but the smiling boy motioned him over.

"The girls are almost gone, Yohji-kun. Why don't you go on?"

"Seriously?"

Omi nodded sagely, lifting one finger as he laid out his logic, "Of course. You've been here all day, tomorrow we close at lunch, and Friday Ken will have to leave for soccer. So, Wednesday is Yohji's early day!"

"Thanks, chibi," he patted the kid on the shoulder before reaching to take off his apron.

"Oh, and Yohji-kun."

"Hmh?"

"Aya-kun was awake when I checked in on him, so you might want to let him up for a while."

* * *

Omi was right. A pair of purple eyes peeked over the edge of the covers when Yohji entered the room.

"Finally get your nap out?" Yohji questioned, unconsciously repeating a phrase from his childhood. He smiled and sat down on the bed as Aya pushed the covers down to his waist to sit as well. His hair was sticking up in various directions, and, catching Yohji's look, he tried to smooth it down.

"We'll go out in the morning, if you can," he explained as he picked a bit of green from beneath his nails, "We can watch a movie or something tonight, though. Sound good?"

A little nod.

"Downstairs, then?" he asked, adding, "You can wear the PJs, no one here but the guys."

Aya shuffled carefully out of the bed. He put the covers back into place and took a second to straighten his clothing. It was a futile attempt. The blue pajamas (with a green paw print pattern) refused to look anything but frumpy, and, indicative of their real owner, they were a touch short at both wrists and ankles, fleece giving way to pale skin.

"We'll get you some clothes tomorrow," Yohji informed him, "come on." He stood waiting at the open door. Aya hesitated, and Yohji wondered what was giving the boy pause. He'd seen the look before, a slight expectation mixed with confusion, when they went to the shower, to breakfast, to bed. Yohji didn't understand what precipitated the expression. "Okay?"

A nod, and then Aya put his head down and followed.

It was only when the redhead unconsciously fingered the collar's ring that Yohji realized he was used to being on a leash.

* * *

Confused barely began to describe his state of mind.

Before, Aya had thought of himself as an intelligent person, but he just couldn't figure out what was going on. He wondered if Schuldig had damaged his brain. There wasn't really anyway to know.

He had thought his owner's declaration of intent had been a farce, some extensive test of his loyalty, making the long period of sleep an attempt to build his strength to last through punishment, but now, how to justify the continued kindness? And no leash. He wasn't drug about , stumbling behind him; he wasn't tied up or to things or even sequestered behind locked doors. He had been trusted to stay in the bedroom, and, just now, it was to a wonderfully comfortable chair his owner had brought him. He was left alone in the spacious, carpeted living room with its windows and furniture while his owner left, promising to bring back not a weapon, but dinner.

Was he serious about . . .

Could he . . .

No. No, Aya would not be swept into idealizations.

He had to stay vigilant, to keep the man's anger at bay. Surely the appearance of freedom was invisibly safeguarded by some impressive security or surveillance. It didn't explain the gentle way of handling, but perhaps that leant some other satisfaction to the moment of reversal when Aya would be suddenly and severely used. It didn't matter, he told himself sternly. Whatever game his owner was playing, Aya had to abide by his rules without violating Crawford's. Schuldig would come, and he had to be on guard.

His fingers reached to touch the collar briefly, then up to brush against the earring.

He missed her.

~tbc~

Notes: Schu gave Aya a cherry sucker . . . if you'd like to take pictures, please leave your name below with a review. All requests pending Yohji's approval.


	25. Will Me

Notes: I feel like I might be lingering in the first days too long (I really do have a plot, I swear!), but I'm interested in how it would all play out and I think the foundation of Aya and Yohji's relationship is crucial to later developments. If it's bothering you all, please let me know and I'll do my best get on with it.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five: Will Me

* * *

"I don't know, Yohji-kun," Omi fretted as he watched his friend rifle through the hall closet.

"Yours?" the blonde questioned, holding up a puffy, fuchsia overcoat.

"Yes. But, listen—"

"Burn it."

Yohji made a face at the coat before hanging it back in the closet, obviously thinking it well below the navy, thigh-length trench he was currently wearing. He shoved a few heavily laden hangers to the side, considered a khaki jacket, then shifted it as well.

"Yohji-kun—"

"Ah! Here, Aya," he pulled a leather maroon jacket from the depth of the closet, taking it from the hanger and handing it to the redhead. Aya stared at it. "Put it on," Yohji directed casually.

Omi wondered where the blonde's frustration had gone; he seemed almost as rejuvenated by the past two days as Aya. The younger man had certainly benefited from the time in bed. The dark circles under his eyes had lessened, though were by no means gone, he seemed to catch on more quickly to what was wanted of him, and, thankfully, it didn't look like he was going to fall over at any moment. Still, Omi had no delusions that he was perfectly fine.

Since he had arrived, Aya had managed to eat little else than warm liquids, a few crackers, and, just that morning, not quite half a piece of dry toast. Omi watched him carefully slip his arms into the jacket, noting the way Yohji's dark purple sweater hung on him; its owner was no big step away from stick thin, so to see it loose over Aya's chest and shoulders was an indication of his state. And Yohji wanted to take him out.

"Please reconsider, Yohji-kun, we can go to the store by ourselves and get what he needs."

Yohji hmphed a little, currently engaged in tying the coat's belt around a wary Aya's thin waist. He stepped back to admire the overall effect; the look read approval, but was not the exuberant wink Omi had often seen the older man lavish on his own reflection.

"We're going out, Omi." Then, with a pointed glance at the clock, "You're late for school."

Shoot! Yohji was right. Omi snagged his bag from the kitchen chair and made a dash for the door, praying that traffic wasn't bad and that his physics exam was multiple choice.

* * *

As they coasted to a stop at the red light, Yohji reached to turn down the Seven's radio. Aya's attention seemed trained out the window, and though cautious, he seemed almost pleased to be outside. Both hands on the door, he breathed the cool air deeply as he watched an elderly man hobble down the sidewalk.

Yohji let the light turn, and they sped off before he began the discussion.

"If you get tired, let me know, okay?"

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Aya dip his head in acknowledgement.

"And try to stay close by me; I want to see what you pick out, after all. In case you haven't noticed, I happen to have an excellent fashion sense."

Nothing. He didn't take it personally. Shifting into fourth, he broached the foreseen difficulty of their day.

"Aya, while we're out, you can't act like you do at home," he paused, regretting the way it sounded like a personal criticism. "I mean, people can't know that you are, were, uh—"

"I understand."

Really? Yohji hadn't expressed it anywhere near coherently.

Aya's hands were in his lap now, the bowed head back, and Yohji hated himself for bringing him back from the curious inspection of the road.

"What should I do, Yohji?"

Damn. Well, he'd just go with it for the moment and hope it wasn't as bad as Aya obviously thought it would be.

"No sitting on the floor, okay?"

"Yes, M—"

Yohji was watching the road, but he caught the cut-off syllable. That stung, but he continued, thinking it for the best.

"Stay with me, but don't walk behind me. Stay, you know, beside me, like we're friends."

"Yes."

"We can be friends, right Aya?"

"Yes."

The last answer was no different than the others, but he chose to take it at face value.

"Good, cause I think it's probably been a while since you were out."

Nothing.

"Am I right?"

"Yes."

He really had no idea how long it had been since Aya had been allowed to interact with other people. Yohji hoped he wouldn't be too uncomfortable, but the research (now his guiding light of Aya-care) preferenced limited periods of normal interaction over restriction to the home which would only imitate imprisonment.

"Thought so. Well, I'll show you the latest trends, no problem," he conversed largely with himself, "If something bothers you, or if you don't know what to do, just ask me. All right?"

Yohji complimented himself on the smooth integration of instruction.

"Yes."

He thought for a second.

"And, Aya?"

Quiet attention and utter stillness.

"Relax. It's just the mall."

Yohji didn't quite think Aya could walk into the sleek Armani shop with an ill fit sweater and a collar around his neck. He had attempted to remove the latter that morning, but when Aya looked ready to panic, he had abandoned the effort immediately. They would enough to deal with; the collar could wait.

It wasn't too hideous, in the shallowest physical sense, though it couldn't be comfortable. After staring at it with vengeance off and on for three days, he guessed the band to be about an inch and half wide. It was probably expensive and completely utilitarian, certainly not your average dog collar. There was a large silver buckle at the back, one strong silver prong sliding through the hole and the loose flap secured by both the buckle and two thin cross strips. Each side had a fairly discrete D-ring attached; the silver pieces folded back against the band, almost unnoticeable beneath the fall of Aya's hair, but no doubt with serviceable intent. They were by no means as well used as the O-ring in the front. It was thick silver, attached front and center at Aya's throat with a stud of sorts, allowing it turn; when at rest, it created a visible circle with the bottom of its curve hanging just a few millimeters below the collar's lower edge. Most of the silver shined dully, but on this ring there were scrapes across the silver, some noticeable impressions in its surface. They spoke of repeated struggles, hard, desperate attempts to get away or strong, deliberate yanks to get him back.

There were fewer marks in the surface of the collar which was made of thick, black leather. This also hinted at quality. Though it had no doubt grown stiff from being wet repeatedly (not always, Yohji thought, with water), it didn't crack (nor did the rings rust). The edge, he noted, bit into Aya's neck, but he had never seen the boy tug or adjust it.

Yohji wanted it gone, and he had been tempted to sneak it off while Aya was asleep. But the mere mention of its removal sent the redhead into an unhealthy state of terror, so Yohji left it alone.

Thankfully, it could pass as an eccentric piece of jewelry, a kind of everyday bondage gear that wouldn't have been too out of place on a punk kid or anyone with a gothic edge to their outfitting. And the earring, another curious possession, did give him a kind of offbeat look. Of course, if Aya's tastes tended towards khaki slacks and sweater vests, they might have more of a problem.

Yohji hoped not. While he could pull off an argyle vest with the best of them, he preferred cashmere and lace and, on occasion, leather.

Just not leather collars.

He had hesitated on the decision, but ultimately Aeon Mall won out, at least for their being out in public test run. They would be less noticeable there, much less so than in the sparsely occupied brand shops where personal attention was a point of pride. The only attention Aya needed at the moment was Yohji's.

Pulling into the parking lot, he found a suitably safe spot near the back and killed the engine. After a brief check for wallet, shades, and watch, he turned to Aya. The boy was sitting with his eyes closed, his back held in a stiff posture away from the seat.

"Aya," he began seriously, resting his hands on the wheel and looking ahead, "this isn't some kind of trick or plan; you're not going to get in trouble. I just want you to have some decent clothes."

"That is what you want, Yohji?"

He was surprised to hear the hesitant response when the boy hadn't been directly prompted, and the direction of query seemed a promising one.

"Yes," he affirmed, "that's what I want."

~tbc~

Notes: Shhh, come here reader *motions you over to a nondescript bedroom door where she, Schu, and the Evil Hentai Slug are evesdropping.* I think Yohji liked your pictures, so please yell out some words of encouragement for him!


	26. Wow Me

Notes: _100 reviews!_ I'm so happy! Thank you all so very much. You have no idea how wonderful it makes me feel to see how many people are reading and taking the time to comment on this story, and I just want you to know that each one is truly appreciated. Thank you blackorcid, Firefly, macDhai, Kate the Night, Kite, met, and ranma; you guys are like the superheroes of reviewers! And thanks to lelann37, Dananoda, , sidhechaos, Maria, Midnattssol, Kyaa, and the ever-mysterious anonymous for clicking that button and leaving such kind comments. Every time I think of giving up this fic, your reviews encourage me to keep going. Thank you! And may the Evil Hentai Slug bless you with yaoi goodness.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: Wow Me

* * *

Yohji spent the first minutes of their outing on guard, ready at any moment to scoop Aya up and make a dash back to the car. He waffled between berating himself for the stupidity of the idea and assuring himself that it wasn't that big of a deal. Maybe he should have started smaller, but, then again, it was a good test of Aya's ability to be in public. Still, as they crossed the parking lot, he felt the palpable tension.

As ordered, Aya walked at his side, head ducked and hands curled up to hold on to the long cuffs of the marron jacket. Yohji had the urge to reach out an grab his hand, and, really, he thought it could be helpful, but two men holding hands in public might draw unwanted attention, and they were likely to have that already. Had he really thought this was a good plan?

The initial test of people came in the form of an elderly couple who were entering the doors in front of them. They spared a glance at Yohji and Aya, then proceeded inside without a thought; Yohji turned to Aya to find him still, slightly tense, but okay.

"Come on," he said, reaching for the door and tugging it open.

Aya looked up at him, blinking in confusion. He looked different in the morning light, not as kind as the shifting iridescents of the house. He face was too thin even for the current trends towards waifish boys, his skin tending unhealthily towards transparent. His hair looked ill-washed, a little tangled as if it dried without brushing. And his eyes; they were still scared.

Yohji didn't know what to do.

"Go on," he motioned Aya to walk in first. The red brows drew together, but Aya bowed his head and went, waiting patiently inside for Yohji to come back to his side. The blonde caught an almost frantic survey of the wide food court, but Aya just curled his hand tighter.

"Okay?" Yohji asked quietly.

"Yes." His voice was softer than in the car, but the tone was the same. Yohji was sure it was a lie, but if Aya could do it, so could he. Adopting the best casual look he could, he offered a smile and started off.

"Alright, time to begin your official makeover, Aya, courtesy of Yohji Kudou, stylist extraordinaire."

It would have come off better if Aya had laughed, and Yohji found himself smiling awkwardly at his own playful boasting.

* * *

For over forty-five minutes Aya followed silently at his side, accepting the items Yohji pulled from various racks and occasionally nodding in response to the blonde's assessment of particularly horrendous items. When Yohji asked him what his favorite colors were, he looked completely baffled.

"Colors, Aya. You know, which ones do you like to wear?"

"…" His brows were creased in thought, like it was some life or death decision. Was he trying to figure out what Yohji wanted him to say?

The blonde sighed, turning back to the rack, "Well, if you don't speak up, I'll dress you in pink, Princess." On cue, he lifted a pale pink polo shirt that he personally wouldn't be caught dead in.

"Black," Aya answered quickly, eyes a little wide at the threat of the pink top.

Yohji laughed, putting t away. It was nice to see him react that way.

"Black, okay. Here," he handed over a black, long-sleeved polo shirt instead. Personally he thought t a bit common, but with Aya's features it would probably work. Checking the size, he added a pair of black jeans and then a pair of light gray ones. "Other colors?"

"Whatever you like, Yohji."

"Ma, Aya," he shook his head, purposefully keeping the criticism as light as possible without foregoing it completely. "I'm picking what I like, but let's get some you like too."

He thought it was a nice balance.

Then Aya found it.

And it was hideous.

Yohji would have walked away, maybe made some comment, but there was something in the almost wistful brush of Aya's fingers over the sweater that made him pick it up immediately. If Aya was interested in it, they would buy it. Even if it was hideous. Even if it was orange.

Fucking orange.

Yohji summoned a smile, wanting to encourage more exploration of Aya's own tastes (and the whole time praying to the gods of fashion that orange was not the boy's real favorite color).

It was with extreme hesitation that he selected one of two shirts Yohji held out, and the blonde met with almost paralyzing reluctance when he suggested Aya pick up something on his own. He quickly rescinded this thought when the boy reached to tug at his own hair.

"Oh, wait. Here," he took the top of Aya's considerable clothes piles, "maybe we should try some of these on first. Over there, I think."

He had already made up his mind to try on only the items he questioned, one of each size and so forth. To go through the entire selection would undoubtedly exhaust Aya, not to mention Yohji .

They entered the fitting room area, and while Yohji thought it might be fun to see Aya parade each outfit for him, he had serious doubts that the other could get through the trying on process without some serious direction, or at least encouragement. So he selected the handicapped room on the end, and ushered Aya inside, setting their collective burden on one side of the bench and squeezing himself onto the other.

Aya stood before him, arms crossed over his midsection in a nervous gesture.

"Just clothes," Yohji tried to comfort without overwhelming; he hesitated, though, over telling the boy to strip down. Not that he hadn't seen Aya naked. Hm, well, that made it a bit easier perhaps. Deciding to act like everything was cool, which, he realized, it was, he picked up a t-shirt and lifted it towards Aya without getting up.

The eartail was tugged one more time, but Aya reached to peal the dark sweater from his body. Yohji turned away politely, only to catch his own reflection in the large mirror behind Aya. He also saw the boy's back, the just-healing lines where Kaimo had hit him. Quickly, he turned his attention back to Aya's front, finding it better to watch a little awkwardly that see those marks secretly.

Aya carefully pulled the gray t-shirt over his head. It was supposed to be fitted, but even a small had a little room in the shoulders and waist. It ended there, just above Aya's hipbones, completely visible as Yohji's jeans hung low on him.

"Let's get that one," Yohji decided, hoping that Aya would fill out to wear it properly. A tight t-shirt would look nice on him if he picked up a bit of weight, and the blonde shifted two of similar fit into the keep pile. "Okay, this next."

It was the hideous sweater. Again Yohji caught something in Aya's movement when he touched the thing, but only once he had it on did Yohji realize why precisely it appealed to him. The taller man stood and gently turned him towards the mirror, looking over Aya's shoulder.

Aya's fingers ran over his stomach, feeling the soft cloth, then, slowly, he raised his eyes to look.

Yohji saw it too, the way the sweater was big enough to hide his smallness, how it didn't cling to his visible bones. Even more prominent, the high, thick turtleneck concealed the collar completely.

"I like it," Yohji decided.

A pale hand touched the neck of the sweater, smoothing it a little. Then, very softly, Aya said, "Me too."

~tbc~

Notes: Please review and tell poor Aya how much you like his hideous sweater!


	27. Wring Me

Notes: Thank you everyone for the reviews! And on an unrelated note, I just brought home two stray kitties who were starving; I'm thinking of naming the pretty one Aya.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Wring Me

* * *

They were looking at him. He had felt it all day, the lingering stares of people running over his body, and he hated it.

It had gotten worse since he owner took the coat away.

Aya wasn't sure if it was the collar, his hair, or the sick way he looked now; they probably thought he was a survivor of some kind of serious disease. It wasn't that far off, and it was preferable to the truth. But couldn't they just look away?

There had been times before, he thought, when he had enjoyed casual outings to places like this, dragging his friends to the bookstores or eating takoyaki* with melon soda, both of which had the added benefit of grossing out his sister who preferred more sensible selections. He had even enjoyed the occasional attention to his strange looks, when he was dressed just so or trying to show off as teenage boys often do. But not now. He wanted to crawl away and hide.

He knew he should be grateful for his owner's concern, for the patient selection of things for him to wear, but it wasn't his choice and it didn't matter. Nothing mattered when you were going home to be stripped and punished and . . . Yohji hadn't done that, he reminded himself. But he could. So far he had tried to help, and even took the sweater Aya thought was so soft and nice.

Aya didn't understand why the blonde bothered to ask him things, to try to get him to choose; Schuldig had played games like that, punishing Aya when he, inevitably, selected incorrectly. It didn't feel like Yohji was playing, but Aya didn't trust himself to judge.

He just wanted away from the staring people, but the best he could do was to stay close to his owner. So he did as he was ordered, trying to focus his attention on the man's words and actions and put the stares of the other customers away from his mind. The effort to play at being friends was the best he could manage, and he knew it appeared as strained as it was. Constantly he reminded himself not to walk behind his owner, not to look at the floor, not to kneel when Yohji sat. At least not right then. And the moment he thought he had a handle on the new rules, his owner would do something unexpected. Aya did his best to adapt, all the while trying to make their interactions as inconspicuous as possible.

They went from one store to another, gathering shirts and pants, all slightly big, and more common items of necessity that had, through his neglect, become odd luxuries. They were too nice; it was all too nice, and sure to look out of place on him, to draw more stares in its contrast. Dressing a slave in finery was, as Crawford had once commented, like putting a suit on an animal: ridiculous. He had allowed no such pretenses, matching Aya's physical appearance to his status. He had been naked, like a dog, and expected to be treated no better. Now, like this, he didn't know what to expect.

His owner had lingered over the underwear more than any man Aya had ever seen, but apparently it was a crucial decision. Simple, serviceable types were discarded, his owner declaring that if one was going to wear 'the damn things' they ought to at least look nice. Aya couldn't fathom why it embarrassed him to see the blonde hold up a pair of boxers and question him, but he was grateful when his owner sent a smiling saleswoman away. She left, but not without a long, hard look at the redhead that made him step momentarily behind the shield of his owner's tall frame. He was lucky Yohji didn't hit him for it.

From there they went to shoes, and his owner seemed pleased when Aya chose black boots over brown loafers; he smiled brightly at his small gesture towards the former. Simple walking shoes and a pair of house slippers were added to these and they had once more headed into the main area.

It was starting to get crowded, and it made Aya uneasy. He looked down at the tile only to remember that wasn't the posture expected; looking up, he caught an unexpected hint of orange through the crowd. He froze, his whole body going rigid as he jerked his head around to focus on it, but it was gone. Where did it go? Had it been there? Was he watching?

"Aya?"

He was looking at Yohji before he thought about it, and saw the concern in his eyes. Strange.

Then his owner's hand was on his arm, pulling him to the side, guiding him to lean against the cool wall out of the crowd.

"Okay?" he questioned.

Aya did a quick check and was surprised to find his heart racing at an unnatural pace and his breathing more erratic than it should have been. Still, he nodded in the affirmative, letting, just for a moment, his back lean against the wall. It had just been his imagination; Schuldig wasn't there, not yet. His instinct was to snap back to attention, but Yohji was too close in front of him, letting go of his arm only to reach for his hands.

Several heavy bags hung from the blonde's arms, but he moved easily, lifting Aya's right hand in both his own. The younger man didn't know what he was about, but knew better than resist when his owner took hold of his fingers and guided them to uncurl, turning tight fist into open palm.

"Oh, Aya," it was a quiet exclamation.

His hand was released, and Aya stood, a little stupidly he thought, with his hand as his owner left it, held out like he was asking for something. What he received was a white handkerchief. His owner's warm hand cradled his own while the other wiped with the handkerchief, collecting the small amount of blood from where Aya had, unthinkingly, let his nails bite too hard. He had been startled.

"I'm sorry," he said, barely managing to stop himself from kneeling in front of his owner; that motion of subservience had been the only thing to save him a more serious blow with Schuldig, since the man seemed to favor the position. But Yohji didn't, and Aya could only clench his eyes shut in anticipation of the reprimand for making such a mess.

"Huh? Hey, it's fine," his owner voice seemed calm. "Look at me."

His owner's hands were still on his, not raised, then, to hit. Aya opened his eyes, and again, those eyes—green and gold—were startling in their kindness.

* * *

God, he was shaking. Yohji didn't personally give a damn if people were looking, but he definitely didn't want Aya making a scene that might scare him more in turn. They had been doing do well.

"Come, on," Yohji said. Shifting his hold on Aya's hand so that he held it normally, he led the boy towards the restrooms. A few passing customers spared curious glances towards the two men holding hands, and it was only for his companion's sake that Yohji repressed the urge to flip them off.

The men's room door swung shut behind them with a small swoosh, and he piloted Aya towards the sinks. Trying to get to something concrete that would calm him down, Yohji fished for the first easy request he could find.

"Here," he tugged up Aya's sleeves like he might do for a little brother, "Wash your hands."

Aya nodded and hurried to comply, running his hands under hot water, carefully tipping up his palms to rinse out the shallow wounds.

"Dry," he said and handed over a wad of brown paper towels. Aya did so, depositing the towels into the trash and turning back to face Yohji with his head ducked. He seemed more in control with the able accomplishment of the simple tasks.

"Better? Aya?"

"Yes."

"Okay," he took a breath, unsure whether to address the issue now or press ahead. He decided on the latter, but altered his plan slightly. "Let's go grab some lunch; I'm starving."

The redhead followed by his side as if nothing had happened, and Yohji started off towards the food court. If he could find a quiet table towards a corner, it might give Aya a little reprieve. The thought of leaving all together crossed his mind, but that might put too much emphasis on Aya's slip. No, Yohji was determined that this was going to be a success. Now, what the hell was he going to feed him?

~tbc~

* This is the best Japanese mall food ever! It's these round, kind of crispy balls with octopus in them and potato salad on top. Okay, I realize that doesn't sound good, but it is. Just writing about it makes me want to go back . . . ah, takoyaki . . . *stares dreamily into space*

Notes: If you'd like to feed the Aya, please leave a treat and a review.


	28. Ward Me

A few comments to reviewers:

Kite: You're so kind, and I know I didn't have to reply, but, well, it was so nice! I really didn't intend this to be an epic, but it does seem to be headed in that direction. Actually, it was supposed to be the thing I wrote when I got frustrated with nitpicking the language on my others, and I resolved early on to just let the words be what they were and not stress over the style, just get it out there. But now it has a life of its own, and I can only hope that I can see it through!

blackorcid: You're right, I do seem to have a thing for Aya in pink…though I have absolutely no idea why! It clashes almost as bad as orange. Hm, perhaps I need an excuse to dress him up a little…

Gespera: It would be an honor for me if you would translate this! Feel free. If you can let me know where it's eventually posted, that would be awesome.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! You guys are the best!

* * *

Notes: Hm, I've been leaving Ken out, I know; I'm afraid it's a habit, but I'll try to work him back in. I actually want him not to be a bad guy, though Aya may take some time to warm up to him. Oh, I'm not sure whether this fic is headed in a Ken/Omi direction or not; I'm just not good at writing the pairing. I blame Ken.

If I was an editor, this chapter would probably be cut, but since I'm a self-indulgent fic writer instead, it stays (at least for now). I think it might need a little WAFF warning, though; back to the seriousness next time, promise!

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ward Me

* * *

Omi sat at the kitchen table, his homework spread out on top of it and Ken leaning over his shoulder to appreciate his sorrow at having yet another exam to study for.

"Just hope we don't have a mission!"

Omi's head popped up, looking both ways quickly, then doing an under-the-table check for good measure. He sighed with relief.

"Don't tempt fate, Ken-kun!"

"Afraid Manx is listening?"

"Yes! She can sense homework," he said pseudo-seriously.

"And soccer games."

They shared a dark nod just before the door opened.

There was a collective exhalation as Yohji maneuvered through the door, the task made difficult by the various shopping bag handles across his arms and a number of boxes piled in his hands; Omi doubted he could see properly over them. What on earth had the man managed to buy? Aya needed sensible outfits, not whatever came in the bag marked 'Hottyz.' Omi hoped the older man had shown some restraint.

When the blonde managed to clear the doorway, Aya followed, carrying a much more modest collection of items. He was looking intently at the ground, and his shoulders betrayed how tired he was. Omi was about to lecture Yohji on taking it easier with him when the blonde spoke.

"Honey, I'm home," Yohji greeted, "and I brought you a present . . . it's here somewhere . . . wait," he shifted a smaller, white box from under the top two, just managing it to pass it to Omi's reaching hands before he dropped it.

"Thanks, chibi. I knew I married you for a reason."

"Yohji-kun," he pouted, not really offended, especially not in the wake of a present.

"Be nice and share with Kenken before he gets jealous," he gestured with his head to Ken while trying to toe off his shoes. Aya was backed towards the wall behind Yohji doing the same, though Omi thought much more gracefully; of course, he wasn't carrying such an obscene amount of things.

But he had a present to open! Scooting over his heavy Trig II book, he set down the white box. Though Yohji frequently brought home little gifts, Omi had yet to get any better at guessing what they would be. It could be anything from a pair of neon yellow knee socks to the Weapon Master Four game—and those were actual examples. Omi still had the socks.

Carefully, he lifted off the lid.

"Chocolates!" He clasped his hands together for a second, then made quick work of the inner box to reveal the array of expensive candies.

"Sweet," Ken commented, and Omi rolled his eyes at the pun, not sure if it was intentional.

Then Ken reached, only to have his hand slapped.

"Hey! Yohji said share!"

"Don't be greedy! Wait a minute," he said, reaching for the little chart that told what chocolate rested where.

Ken reached again, and Omi slapped his hand without looking.

"That one's mine."

"How about—"

"Mine."

He pointed again.

"Mine."

"Which one's mine?"

"That one." He pointed to a sad, lumpy chocolate in the corner.

"But I don't want the one with nuts!" he whined, trying to look pitiful.

Omi relented, as he knew he would, lifting a maple cream (Ken's second favorite next to caramel) and putting it into the outstretched hand. Turning to Yohji, he looked hard at the box for a second, then plucked out the cherry cordial and held it out.

Yohji glanced at his full hands and opened his mouth. Omi stood on his toes popped the chocolate in.

"Aya-kun?" he asked. The boy was studying his socked feet intensely. "Hmm," Omi considered, with a brief confirming look to Yohji, "one won't hurt, will it Yohji-kun?"

It wouldn't be fair to leave Aya out like that.

"Nah. Which ones do you like Aya?"

Aya looked to Yohji, slightly confused, Omi thought. Well, there was no point stressing him out over something so small.

"Here, Aya-kun, let me pick for you," he pretended to concentrate much harder than necessary. "Ah! I got it!"

His fingers swept over the box, stopping just left of center and plucking up an oblong piece of milk chocolate. Aya was trying to shift his boxes out of one hand, but Omi just stepped close and smiled.

"Ahh," he demonstrated, opening his mouth. For a second, he thought Aya wouldn't do it, that he had crossed some line. Then Aya slowly imitated his action, sans sound effect, and Omi slipped the chocolate inside.

"Good, right?"

Aya nodded once while he chewed slowly, and Omi giggled; Yohji rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Aya. Let's go upstairs; he'll be hyper all night."

Omi thought he was jealous. He also thought that Aya liked strawberry cream candy.

He would have to remember that.

Then he turned around to find Ken hovering over his abandoned second tray of chocolate, mouth suspiciously full.

"Ken-kun, what's in your mouth?"

"Noffming," he tried around the chocolate.

"That's my caramel!"

~tbc~


	29. Wilt Me

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Wilt Me

* * *

Depositing his burden in and around the suede chair by the window, Yohji stretched and plopped down on the bed. He watched Aya, curious as to what amount of independence the other would show. He felt a serious pang of disappointment when the boy stood politely inside the doorway, waiting.

"Put the stuff down, Aya, and come rest."

The boy nodded once and carefully placed his boxes on the floor near the chair; the two bags he settled beside the ones Yohji had put down. With slightly more confidence, he approached the bed and, to compound the blonde's disappointment, knelt to Yohji's right, bowed his head, and was silent.

"I had a good time today," Yohji told him.

* * *

He wasn't sure what his owner wanted; for all appearance he was content to wander around and buy things. Aya didn't want to think about the amount of money that had been spent on him, but it was almost comforting that Yohji seemed to want him dressed. Of course, that served a purpose. Obviously his owner didn't want to be known as a purchaser of slaves; he had said as much. Aya was to act differently when outside the house so as not to alert the authorities.

It was fine. He could do that easily.

It was what Yohji wanted once they returned home that concerned him. It was easy to be coerced by that voice, by the gentle handling that was so different. Aya struggled to keep up his guard; it was be all too easy to fall back into the half-forgotten pattern of an old life. But that was gone; Ran was gone, and his owner would be requesting reparations soon.

* * *

Omi turned from the disaster Ken was making of dinner to smile at Yohji as he entered the room.

"Thanks for the candy!" he beamed, hoping to convey how much the gesture meant to him. It was nice to be thought of.

"Welcome," Yohji returned, headed straight for the fridge. He took out a beer, popped the tab, and shut the refrigerator. He took the first two drinks standing there in front of it, and, seeming to consider the half-empty state of the one he was holding, took out another can before sitting down at the table.

"Ow, shit!" Ken swore, holding his hand defensively and glaring hard at the skillet of bacon.

Omi shook his head, leaving the brunette to his own devices against their dinner; really, he had to learn sometime. Yohji didn't seem to be paying any attention at all. The blonde was staring hard at the table as he finished off the first beer. When the can was empty, he pushed it away a little and opened the second.

"Was it awful, Yohji-kun?"

"Huh?" Dark shades were aimed in his direction, then Yohji tilted his head a little to look over them.

Omi took a different track.

"Where's Aya-kun?"

"Resting," he returned, still only half involved in the conversation. He went back to looking at the table.

It was odd.

"Are you—"

A loud metallic rattle interrupted him, accompanied as it was by a small burst of flame. Omi jumped up and slammed the lid on the skillet; using Ken's abandoned oven mit, he moved the whole smoking mess to the sink and, having starved the flames of oxygen, ran water over the mess.

Ken got up off the floor, looking rather rumpled.

"I told you it wouldn't work," he complained.

Was he four? Omi tried not to think cruel thoughts, but sometimes it just wasn't funny how inept the others could be.

"Fine," he gave up.

"Omi . . ."

"Nevermind, Ken-kun," he forced a smile, obviously relieving the brunette, "just microwave something."

Ken nodded, as if it was some great responsibility, and Omi sat back down to deal with Yohji who, apparently, had missed the entire incident.

He wasn't exactly sure how to broach the subject. Though Omi had warned against the outing, he sincerely hoped it hadn't gone very badly. Yohji had come in so happy, and Aya had seemed okay. Had something happened that Omi hadn't noticed? Something that had disappointed Yohji?

"Are you okay?"

"What?"

With a little sigh, Omi shifted to the seat next to the taller man and propped his elbow on the table. He decided to start with something straightforward.

"Did you get Aya-kun some new clothes?"

"Yeah," Yohji smiled a little at that. "Some decent stuff, good enough for now. He's thin."

Omi nodded at the fairly disjointed answer. Yohji finally seemed to recognize his 'I'm here to listen' face. Stretching his long limbs as he arched out of the chair, Yohji popped his back and settled in again, this time facing Omi and with a more engaged attitude. Finally.

But Yohji was wearing his debriefing face, a kind of tired neutrality that tried to read board and hit closer to mournful reflection.

"It wasn't bad," he started. "Actually, I'm surprised it went so well. He was okay, or . . . he played at being okay."

Yohji shifted forward in the chair, dropping his elbows to the table.

"I can't tell what all's an act," he admitted. "Today at the mall, he was almost fine. Quiet. The people didn't seem to bother him too much. Followed me around, watched me like a hawk. I got him to choose a few things, but as far as taking the initiative," he shrugged.

"Don't expect too much, Yohji-kun."

"I know. I was happy, I mean, I thought he might really flip out or something."

Omi nodded; similar thoughts had occurred to him.

"But he went with it, mostly. He's . . . adaptable. I don't think," he paused, as if debating whether or not to share.

"What?"

"I don't think he's been like that forever."

The microwave dinged, and Ken, attending it carefully, took out the plate and began to divide the flat, melted excuse for a pizza. It seemed to resist being cut, and Omi and Yohji both paused to watch until the jagged, battered portions arrived on paper plates.

"Is he coming down?" Ken questioned, mouth already full.

Yohji shook his head, and Omi made a mental note to send something back up with the blonde. He hoped the candy hadn't made Aya sick; he would feel terrible if it had.

"So," Ken swallowed and surprised them by asking, "why do you think he's new at it?"

So he was paying attention.

Yohji shook his head again, "Not new exactly, but he hasn't always been that way. He's angry, even if he hides it. He doesn't want to do that."

"How do you figure that?"

Omi seconded the question but was hard pressed to interpret Yohji's grin.

"He yelled at me."

No. Omi couldn't even fathom the meek, fragile Aya letting Yohji have it. Impossible.

The disbelief had to be written on his face, and Ken was openly scoffing.

"He did," Yohji assured. "He apologized right after. He was freaked out, totally off kilter, chibi. I pressed him about his past a little . . ."

"And?"

"He's in a mess."

"No shit," Ken decided.

Yohji glared; Ken returned to his pizza.

"Yohji-kun," Omi drew his attention back. "What do you mean?"

* * *

Finishing off the second beer, Yohji set it aside and began to recount the important aspects of his time with Aya, omitting a few of what he considered to be privileged, personal details. He started with their trip to the mall, and quickly went over the boy's reactions to the small decisions Yohji had asked him to make; he focused, though, on the selection of the color black, leaving out the orange sweater which, he thought, would be evident soon enough. He offered observations about Aya's ability to deal with anonymous crowds, not comfortable, but far from terrified excepting the one incident that put Yohji at a loss. He could function, and he was able to pick up on social cues. Additionally, he understood that his situation wasn't normal; he had quickly perceived why he couldn't appear to be Yohji's slave.

From there he moved to the change he noticed when they arrived home. The scene in the doorway with the chocolate was merely a transition, and by the time they arrived upstairs, Aya had returned almost fully to his position as servant, calling into question the validity of the day's success. Yohji tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but the look on Omi's face told him he wasn't quite successful.

Dismissing it for the moment, he related , carefully, Aya's sparse account of his situation, his insinuation of some kind of debt, his revelation of a captive sister, and his sudden show of anger.

They all sat quietly over empty plates, thinking.

~tbc~

Evil Hentai Slug: Miko's taking much too long packing for vacation (not that I had anything to do with that missing sunscreen which I certainly did not rub on pretty boys), so while she's not looking, let's *wink, wink, nudge, nudge* . . . what? I was talking about naughty poetry. What on earth were you thinking, reader?


	30. Wash Me

Notes: Sorry for the delay; my friends decided to drag me away from my laptop and to the beach (they forgot to take my notebook, though, bwahaha!). The downside, no posting. The upside, a fic where Aya and Yohji…well, you'll see when I finish it. Anyhow, here's an extra-long chapter to make up for my slacking.

* * *

Chapter Thirty: Wash Me

* * *

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The rhythmic pulse of the alarm clock penetrated his sleep, annoyance warring with exhaustion to see whether he would actually wake.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The alarm won, but it was a long battle, and by the time Yohji drug himself form under his pillow to pick up the oblong machine and glare at it, Aya was awake. The blonde spared a blurry glance at his bedmate and then tried to focus on the glowing red numbers.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

How the hell did he shut this thing off?

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He tried one button, and the clock beeped faster.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

About to throw it across the room, he spotted the switch.

Beepbeepbee—

There. God damn. No wonder he didn't use the fucking thing.

Yohji was bare seconds from flopping back onto the bed when he remembered why he had set the alarm in the first place. Aya. Friday.

He shook his head and blinked his eyes a couple times; reaching for his shades, he put them on and tried again.

It was Friday, and he was taking Aya to work in the Koneko. It was all part of his master plan of incorporating the boy into their lives and, he hoped, offering him some kind of independence.

Groaning a little, he ran a hand over his face and drug himself from under the covers. He yawned loudly, stretched, and finally righted himself to face the world, only to find his sleep pants uncomfortably twisted around his thin waist and taking much too much effort to straighten.

He really hated sleeping in clothes.

Stumbling towards the closet, Yohji shoved it open and debated. He didn't really need to dress just yet; the navy drawstring pants would do, and he was even wearing a gray tank. That was damn good for seven a.m. Yohji; he usually went naked.

Okay. He had to focus. They needed to be in the shop at eleven, and that gave him a little under four hours to make Aya ready to face the world.

First, Yohji needed a cigarette.

As he turned to grab the pack from the nightstand, he caught Aya's eyes.

"Morning, princess."

The stare was curious, made rather kittenish when offered from beneath disorderly red bangs.

Deciding the trek outside wasn't something he was going to do every morning, Yohji grabbed the cigs and lighter, walked around to Aya's side of the bed, and, stepping carefully around their bags from the day before, opened the blinds and cracked the window. He stared at the street as he lit up, inhaling the first lungfuls of smoke that meant the day was supposed to start.

Yohji heard the soft creek the bed and felt Aya's stare on his back. He took his time, flicking the ashes through the crack in the window and watching the scant passerby as they made their ways to work. When he found himself at the filter, he flicked the butt out the window and drew it closed, leaving the blinds open and bright morning light spilling into the room.

The morning was about to get interesting, in one way or another.

The things he had read all insisted on the healing nature of positive touch, to be offered first in moderation, of course. Recovery patients needed to know first that gentle, non-threatening touches existed and, second, that they were worthy of those kinds of interactions. It was a way to distance them from the world of captivity where a majority, if not all, of the physical relations they had were painful, dangerous, and frightening. Positive touch needed to be frequent, non-threatening, and comforting; they also, several sources suggested, should be greatly varied, especially until a doctor, family member, or caregiver, (or in this case, a Yohji) discovered which worked as soothing reminders of the new, safe environment.

Ideally, it should have been a slow process, but Yohji was all too aware that once Kritiker got wind of their situation, he wouldn't be given that much time. He knew from experience that transformations, training, and field assignments via the organization were accomplished swiftly.

All in all, his plan sounded complicated and risky even in his own head, but Yohji had already taken Aya's hand, and the boy had seemed okay. And on his part, well, it wasn't as if he dreaded touching the other.

Now, though, he was going to push it a little, or a lot. But the entire process was practical as well as therapeutic, and they were just going to have to get through it. Plus, if all went as planned, it might serve to imprint on Aya's mind the important thing Yohji was offering: a new start.

"Bath time."

* * *

_/Don't glare at me like that. You're the messy one, kätzchen./ _

_Aya did glare, looking up from the floor where he was laying in an unattractive pool of his own blood. Farfarello had been overzealous, and though the cuts along his chest and arms were mostly shallow and would, per Crawford's orders, leave no scars, the sheer number made the seeping blood accumulate around his prone form._

"_Get up," Schuldig ordered after he hooked the leash to the ring on Aya's collar._

_He struggled for a moment, getting onto his side and trying to press his body up. It was awkward with his hands cuffed in front of him, and he slipped twice in his own blood before gaining a kneeling position. Something ached in his chest. He sat there, panting for breath. Had Farfarello broken a rib when he threw him into the room? _

"_Up."_

_Clenching his teeth, Aya staggered upward, swaying unsteadily. Schuldig started off, and he was yanked forward by the leash, hard enough to send him off balance. The stone floor caught his kneecaps painfully as he fell, then his neck was jerked forward, the collar coming up to scrape at his chin. He pushed up, fell, and had to crawl until Schuldig slowed enough to give him time to gain his feet. _

_With this stumbling, falling, bleeding pace, they reached his keeper's rooms. Aya wasn't granted a space of his own beyond the unnamed room of stone walls and floors where his punishments were staged, and so he was brought to Schuldig's chambers for periodic cleaning. It was a process he enjoyed little more than punishment, and really just another name for the same._

_/I'm not punishing you./ _

_Aya put as much energy as he could into the mental sigh._

"_Look at you; you're filthy. Would you rather stay like that?"_

"_Yes." _

"_Disgusting."_

_He glared; Schuldig yanked the leash again, sending him sprawling on the cream tile. His leash was tied to the handle of vanity, and Aya tried to sit, but he was dizzy, weak from blood loss and several rather serious blows to the head. And when had he slept? The tile was cool, and though he could see his blood smeared across it, Aya thought he might be able to sleep there, for just a second._

_A sharp smack to the back of his head jolted him away; he tried to bring his hands up to his face, but it was Schuldig and not Crawford who looked down on him._

"_No sleeping. You know that," he said, rather serious for once. Then the smile was back, "It's bath time for my dirty little kätzchen."_

_The leash was unsnapped, but Aya found himself too weak to put up much of a struggle. He was still bleeding. Of course, Schuldig usually waited until he was in such a state to bathe him. _

"_Of course I do. You have a bad habit of hitting me when you're not."_

_Aya felt himself smirk; the expression threatened to open a wound on his lower lip and he soon gave it up to stoic repression as Schuldig pulled him up into a sitting position, propping him against the vanity. The cuffs at his wrists were removed, leaving raw, bruised rings along with dried blood. Aya tried to reach one hand to touch the other, but the motion failed; dark spots began to threaten his vision._

_/Wake up or I'll drown you./_

_He was dragged back into consciousness, but whether by his keeper's power or his own, Aya wasn't sure. Strong arms lifted him off the floor, tilting him back against Schuldig's chest not quite gently, but not with any real force. Maybe the man was afraid Aya would throw up on him again; that earned another small smirk, and the next shift of Schuldig's arms was not so easy._

_Aya was settled in the bottom of the empty tub. Leaning forward, with his knees slight bent, he dropped his hands between his thighs in some vague attempt at modesty. He wanted to wrap his arms tightly around his knees, curl up, and pass out._

_Schuldig stood next to the tub. He removed his green jacket, laying it over the sink, then unbuttoned his white dress shirt and laid it there as well. Stripping off his white undershirt, he looked pointedly at Aya who was doing his best not to look at anything at all._

"_Shall we bathe together today?"_

_Aya wasn't sure if he managed a mental answer or if only the shudder of his frame informed Schuldig's decision._

"_So cruel."_

_Tossing the undershirt to the sink, he knelt beside the tub in just his pants and reached to press in the plug and start the water. Lukewarm wetness began to seep around Aya's feet and bottom, stinging his wounds as it rose. He wished it was hot, hot enough to burn away the dirt, the skin, all the feeling, to burn him away to nothingness._

_The water was cut off before it reached three inches, as if his keeper was afraid he would try to do the drowning himself. _

_A rough cloth began to swipe at his face, dipping occasionally into the water then coming up to wipe away the crusted gore from lips and nose; the latter seemed to be always bleeding, and his entire face felt tender and bruised though it hadn't been the focus of Farfarello's blows. _

_There was a cursory swipe at the back of his neck, then a rough tousle of the top of his hair. Schuldig lingered a little with the eartails, removing the caked blood from the longer strands before rinsing the rag and moving downward. He swept the blood from the new wounds, tinting the water brownish-red. It made Aya a little sick to see it, so he closed his eyes and tried to think of something, anything else. This was shot to hell when the washcloth descended between his legs. It hit the back of his hands first, but Schuldig was quick to move them out of the way, tsking a little. Then the rag was cleaning him there, taking longer than necessary as it wiped over his lower abdomen. _

_/Open your eyes. Do it./_

_He did._

"_Stop resisting me," a pause, "We could pretend to be lovers, Ran."_

_Aya's legs were forced further apart as Schuldig cleaned the creases of his thighs, and Aya fought hard against the embarrassed tears that threatened. He hadn't cried yet, not in front of them. But the rag, a thin separation from the German's hand, was scratching up and down his flaccid penis while Schuldig watched it attentively. He glanced briefly towards Aya's face as he slipped the cloth further down, cupping his balls, rolling them in pretense of cleaning, taking too long._

"_Bradley doesn't let you pretend, does he?"_

_Aya wanted to die. _

"_I wouldn't mind." His hand crept further back and his voice turned mocking, "I could love you, Ran."_

_And just when Aya thought he would be put off balance by the insistent hunting beneath his bottom, Schuldig retreated, going on to wash his legs as if it had never happened. But the obvious bulge in the German's pants told a different story; Aya didn't want to look and closed his eyes tightly as Schuldig wrapped him in a large towel and lifted him from the tub. _

"_You're so much fun, kätzchen."

* * *

_

He followed his owner silently into the bathroom.

~tbc~

Notes: If you'd like to punish the Schu-chan, you'll have to sign a waiver…please click below.


	31. Warn Me

Chapter Thirty-One: Warn Me

* * *

"Close the door," Yohji said without turning around. He heard it shut softly. Depositing his loaded plastic bag of essentials on the floor near the sink, he went to tub and, after opening the shower door completely, plugged the drain. Knowing it would take time to fill, he started the water, testing it with his hand and making adjustments until it was verging on hot but not uncomfortable.

Righting himself, he looked back to Aya.

The boy had been tired the day before, and Yohji had let him put Omi's PJs back on rather than dig through their purchases for the better pair he had gotten. The blue fleece made him look younger as he stood close to the door, his back almost touching it, with his head bowed and hands clenched near his sides.

The last detail didn't sit too well with Yohji. He had expected some, if not resistance, hesitation, but not so early on.

"Okay?" he questioned, finding it a phrase he now used on an hourly basis. But when someone didn't express their needs or, well, anything, unless directly prompted, it became necessary.

Aya nodded without looking at him.

The water continued to run quietly in the background as Yohji rifled through the bag and pulled out a bottle: pink. Screwing off the lid, he sniffed it, was ambivalent about the rosy scent, and was about to let Aya see for himself when he decided it might be more confusing than helpful to ask the boy to smell something. Instead, he dumped a generous amount into the tub and watched as the pour of water began to produce a growing mound of bubbles.

Yohji stood, put away the bubble bath, and situated the stack of dry towels on the back of the toilet. Turning to Aya, he tried to formulate his request in a manner least likely to induce fear, but, as talented his was a words related to seduction, Yohji found himself slightly at a loss when telling someone to disrobe for another reason.

"Alright, hop in."

Okay, maybe that was too casual, but Yohji thought evident tension on his part was only going to send Aya over the edge. Already he was rigid; closing his eyes briefly, he nodded, took a step forward, and began to work the first button while he stared at the floor. It was more than awkward; Aya was undressing with the obvious expectation of something unpleasant. Yohji could feel it in the air, and see it in the reluctant movements of those slender fingers as they slipped one button after another from their places like some forced striptease.

Yohji wanted to offer encouragement, but he thought his words wouldn't help. Aya needed to see, to feel, that the blonde wasn't going to hurt him, and that would take time, not just this instant, but repeated, awkward, painful repetitions where his anticipations of pain were left unmet. But god, it hurt to see him undo the drawstring of the pants and clutch the waistband so pitifully.

Then Aya let the loose cloth fall from around his thin hips, bending, carefully, stiffly, to retrieve them and fold them carefully. Again he paused, holding the folded pants in front of him, but, with a breath, he set them aside on the vanity, clasping his hands over himself instead, still staring intently at the floor.

The running water was the only sound.

This wasn't going to get any better.

"Do you keep that on?" Yohji gestured at the collar, and once again Aya nodded.

Well that couldn't be comfortable, but it was far from the time and place to have it out over that particular reservation.

"Okay. Get in, then."

Another nod, then a silent, deep inhalation before Aya stepped forward. Carefully he navigated around Yohji and stepped, cautiously, into the tub. There he hesitated again before sitting, not in a relaxed sprawl that usually marked Yohji's own bathing ritual, but a tight, drawn up position with his knees hugged towards his chest and his chin resting nearly on top of them.

He was shaking.

Taking a clean cloth from his linens stack, Yohji tossed down a towel by the tub and knelt on it. When he reached to dip it in the water, Aya jumped, his elbow banging into the far edge as he instinctually tried to get away.

"Woah, calm down," Yohji withdrew his hand with the washcloth, not bothering to wring it out. Aya settled back, still trembling. His eyes were closed.

"Geez, Aya, you're like a frickin cat at bath time," he laughed, but it was cut instantly short by the horrified look on Aya's startled face. The boy stared at him, eyes bright with fear, lower lip shaking. "Aya?"

Yohji dropped the rag on the floor with a wet plop and reached with a bare hand, hoping to touch Aya's shoulder in a repeat of his comforting touches while the boy had been asleep. It failed miserably. Aya scrambled to get away, slipping in the rising water before he managed to half stand, a loud bang marking the moment when his temple connected painfully with this tub's porcelain wall, just before he sank back down, gathering his cowering form in the back right corner and shaking worse than ever.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whispered, words almost lost as he pressed his forehead against his knees, "I'm sorry, Master. I'm s—"

"Aya, it's okay."

"Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You didn't do anything."

Aya made a sound, a soft keen that was piteous in its desperation. Yohji hated himself for putting the boy in that position. He wanted to call the whole thing off, to take Aya back to bed and watch him sleep, to chase away the nightmares, at least for a little while longer.

"It's my fault. I should have warned you."

There was no response; Aya just remained curled around himself as the water rose around him. Yohji could barely reach him over there in the corner. Seeing the water hovering around the boy's hips, Yohji reached to turn off the tap before reaching again.

"Come here, Aya. I'm not gonna hurt you."

How many times had he said that? It really was a lot like coaxing a frightened cat out of its crate, but he didn't dare repeat the analogy: there was obviously something deeply unsettling in it. Instead, he carefully brushed his fingertips across Aya's shoulder, wincing himself at the startled jump.

"Come here," he tried again. This time it seemed to register; there was a small movement of Aya's head, a stiffening of resignation, and a careful movement as he shifted himself slowly back into the center of the tub.

Yohji let him sit there a minute, watching his back, hoping the gasping, shallow breaths would even out.

"Okay?" he asked, again.

There was a nod, but Aya didn't lift his head from his knees.

"It'll be fine. I promise."

His fingers trailed down Aya's arm, causing the other to shudder.

With a sigh, Yohji turned to take the shampoo and conditioner from the plastic bag.

"I'm gonna wash your hair, okay?" The bottle clicked open. "This is your shampoo and stuff; we'll get you some better things when this runs out, but I thought you'd want some of your own."

Aya turned his head to watch Yohji cautiously. It was a slight improvement that gave him the courage to proceed.

Squeezing a glob of shampoo out into his hand, he held it up for a second, making sure Aya understood his intention, then reached to rub it against the boy's head. He started, but just a little, staying still to let Yohji work the shampoo into his hair. Sitting up on his knees, Yohji carefully rubbed the lather through the red strands; obviously long neglected, Aya's hair felt fine and brittle. He pulled the long bangs back from Aya's face, slicking them back with the rest as he massaged the scalp, careful to avoid the newly injured left temple which promised to bare yet another knot. He had to keep himself very still when the boy leaned, just a little, to let him reach the other side.

"I don't want to get it in your eyes, so tilt back."

He didn't know how well it would go, but Yohji went for it. Placing his hand on the back of Aya's neck, he supported his head gently as the boy did as he was told, tilting his head back to let the older man pour water over his hair to rinse the red strands. As he started in with the conditioner, Yohji noted the change in the other's demeanor. Aya looked, well, out of it. He stared dully ahead, responding to Yohji's direct requests but little more.

It wasn't exactly the healthiest response, but given the earlier ones, Yohji would take it.

Finishing Aya's hair, Yohji retrieved his rag and unwrapped the fresh bar of soap he had found; it was supposedly for sensitive skin, and given the redhead's complexion, he had figured he couldn't be too careful. As neglected as his hair, Aya's skin was dry in places, slightly red in others which was better than the bluish bruising still dominating his back. Dehydration and abuse had taken their toll on every part of him, and Yohji felt an instinctual anger rising in his chest at the thought of such inhuman neglect. He wanted to strangle the bastards who had denied the boy the basics of compassion, treated him undoubtedly worse than a prisoner of war, and made him jump at Yohji's touch.

He had to shove down the frustration. Taking a breath, he focused on Aya.

Gently, he washed the boy's face, tipping the pointed chin towards him to brush across his forehead and down his cheeks. As he light whisped the cloth over Aya's nose, he studied the eyes and found them disturbingly blank.

Was Aya even there?

"Okay?"

Nothing.

"Aya?" he leaned close to the face, still holding the boy's chin. At the movement, Aya jerked away. "That's better. Don't check out on me. You don't have to do that. Understand?"

"Yes, Yohji."

"Good."

To prove his point, he began to carefully work his way down one thin arm, lathering the pale skin, rubbing it gently, then sweeping away the soap. Picking up Aya's hand, he worked carefully to clean beneath the boy's nails and was watched carefully all the while; the confused observation swept away the last of his trepidation, and Yohji felt reassured in his choice as he continued to work his way over Aya's arms, shoulders, and back, cautious and gentle about the still-healing marks.

He actually felt the tension building in the muscles under his hands a he moved closer to the waterline. He didn't need to know what had happened before; it was enough to realize the kind of trauma it took to make a person so terrified of another's touch.

Taking Aya's hand again, Yohji pressed the rag into it.

"Here, you finish up while I run put this stuff in the bedroom."

~tbc~

Notes: Hm, we had better leave the Aya alone…why don't you review to pass the time?


	32. Warm Me

Chapter Thirty-Two: Warm Me

* * *

Aya stared at the washcloth in his hand, then at the closed door. His brain felt heavy and slow, refusing to process the erratic morning. He was tired, and he felt a familiar daze falling over him despite his best efforts to fight it back.

When his owner had touched him, the first time, he hadn't even realized . . . hands were other hands . . .

He shook his head, trying to clear it. What was wrong with him?

Taking a deep breath, Aya finished washing. He was grateful, intensely so, that his owner had left him to do the rest. When Yohji touched his hair, it was almost, he hesitated to apply the word to something so dangerous, but it was almost nice. His hands were gentle, not like others. He didn't grab or scratch or hurt. But if he had touched Aya there…he shuddered.

How was he going to get through it? Would it be worse for the gentleness his owner was exercising, biting in its comparison when he decided to have Aya that way? Was that what they were preparing for?

No. No, Yohji had said—

He could have laughed at his own naiveté.

Folding the washcloth, he set it aside. Turning his upper body, he folded his arms on the tub's edge and rested his chin on top of them. The water was warm, and he felt himself lulled into a state of half-sleep, unable to summon the alert he knew he ought to be on.

In the back of his mind, he heard the door open and close. He felt the tentative touch on his shoulder, brushing down his hair. That was okay. That was Yohji.

He had to wake up. But it was warm, and he spent so much time being cold.

The water began to seep from around him, and a fluffy, warm towel was draped around his shoulders.

"I got you," his owner said, lifting him. So different.

Maybe Yohji would take care of him.

It really didn't matter anyway.

* * *

If Yohji needed any reminder of Aya's rather fragile condition, the lethargic, almost unconscious form he pulled from the bathtub served the purpose. He wasn't sure if it was the heat or the stress, and most likely it was a combination of these with old injuries and a lack of soundness in general, but the boy seemed to be hovering barely on the edge of awareness.

Wrapping him in an oversized white towel, Yohji lifted his princess against his chest. Aya didn't struggle, his head lolling back first, then, with a shift of Yohji's arm, to rest against the blonde's chest. He didn't make a sound.

Navigating the hall, Yohji laid him carefully on the bed, already prepared with another towel spread out upon it. Whether by instinct or modesty, Aya turned on his side, drawing up his knees and tucking his arms in close. His eyes were open, and they stared blankly at his own fingers. The towel remained over his shoulders, dropping down so that only the lower curve of his bottom was revealed. Still, Yohji draped a third towel over his waist.

For a few minutes he watched Aya breathe and wondered if he ought to check the boy's blood pressure.

Ultimately, he decided to wait.

Leaving Aya on the bed, Yohji set about dressing himself for the day. He had showered the night before and decided to forgo the repetition in favor of staying with the boy. He stripped off his tank and pants, tossing them in a nearby pile and pulled on a pair of fitted brown corduroys. He added a silver belt before deciding on a dark burgundy t-shirt layered over a white, long-sleeved shirt of white.

His hair received a spritz of leave-in conditioner and a thorough brushing before being drawn into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck.

All of this was completed without removing his sunglasses.

And after another quick smoke, Yohji returned to the bedside. Aya had apparently fallen into a real sleep, a state more comforting than the dull-eyed absence. Yohji wasn't sure about waking him, but he hated to repeat the whole process when they were this far along, and doing anything to the boy while he was sleeping was out of the question.

"Aya. Aya, wake up."

At the first tentative touch, the boy started awake, hands snapping up in front of his face only to be jerked back down as soon as purple eyes found Yohji.

"I'm sorry, Yohji," he said immediately, sitting up and ducking his head. The towel fell from his shoulders, but his hands were quick to curl in the one on his lap, making Yohji glad he had thought of it.

"It's fine. Worried me a little, though. You feel okay?"

A nod in the affirmative, but Yohji thought it meant little. Aya's conception of okay seemed to have only the pre-requisite of still breathing.

"Alright, but if you don't, you tell me. Okay?"

Another nod.

Taking another bottle from his seemingly endless bag of goodies, Yohji lifted it for Aya's inspection as he took a seat on the bed to Aya's left.

"Lotion," he explained. Aya stared at it curiously, head tilted just a little. Yohji fought back a smile, pleased to see an active expression on the boy's face. Squirting some of the white lotion into his hand, he started at the most innocuous place he could think of. Aya jumped a little at the touch, but sat still and stiff as Yohji rubbed the lotion onto his elbow.

"Smells okay, right?" Yohji questioned, talking more to himself and for the purpose of keeping the mood light rather than making actual conversation. He moved deliberately and efficiently, careful not to linger yet not making any sudden movements that might scare Aya as he rubbed the lotion over the boy's arms and shoulders. Extra caution was required around his back, but Yohji prattled on while he used two fingers to apply it gently over the healing red lines.

"I think you'll like the shop; I hope you will. Ken's there now, but Omi'll be in this afternoon. We do a lot of arrangements and stuff, some call in orders, lots of on-the-spot things, and some weddings and events."

Aya seemed to be listening with more intensity than the subject required, but it allowed Yohji to make quick work of rubbing the lotion across his thin chest and sunken stomach.

"There are a lot of regulars, old ladies and business people. Then there're the fangirls; they're…well, they're faithful."

He shook his head and smiled, dispelling any real disparagement of the young ladies whom he knew loved him dearly in their own, slightly psychopathic, way. Looking down, he thought it best to skip the entire towel-clad area of Aya's person and went for the boy's knees instead. They were dry and red, looking like they had been scraped on more than one occasion. Yohji applied the lotion liberally there and moved towards Aya's feet, thinking it a shame that such fair skin, with its potential to porcelain purity, had been so neglected.

"It's not hard. You'll probably pick up the flower stuff pretty quick, but there're always chores and stuff. Foot."

The requested appendage was lifted a few inches, lotion was applied, and its twin was treated in the same manner.

"There," Yohji decided, setting the bottle aside.

"Next," he reached to the nightstand for the nail clippers and file, showing them to Aya before dropping the latter between his own crossed legs. The man looked a slightly dubious as he realized he was going to be subject to Yohji's prolonged attention. "I promised you one official makeover, and I won't have it said that Yohji Kudou is not thorough in his pursuit of fashionable appearance."

With that, he reached for Aya's hand, holding it in his own as he worked around the thin fingers. The nails were rather long, if ragged, and recollecting the boy's tendency to cut himself with them, Yohji clipped them rather short before filing them into something near perfection, leaving small, clean, white crescents above each.

He moved on to Aya's earring, over which a hand was instantly clasped, an action simultaneous with Aya's shielding of his face in anticipation of a blow. After a very slow disclosure of the jewelry, accompanied by multiple promises not to take it off, Yohji had mentally put it in the category of the collar, a remnant of Aya's old life that he wanted gone as soon as possible. For the moment, he cleaned the area which was red from what appeared to be a recent piercing which he doubted was accomplished in any sterile manner.

He lost Aya for a while during that one, and it took a little recovery time (and physical space) to bring him back. Yohji used to time to smoke, again, and tried to calm his nerves. He couldn't afford to get frustrated, even when Aya insisted on repeatedly testing his patience with the expectation of being beaten. It wasn't the boy's fault; Yohji knew it, but he was getting tired of being the bad guy when doing his best to be the prince.

After their brief hiatus, Aya still regarded him with wary curiosity, but he hadn't moved yet. His look shifted a little towards surprise when Yohji uncapped and handed over the deodorant he had bought, and then slightly towards what he thought was gratitude. As he popped the cap back on, he placed it with the lotion on the floor.

"We'll stick all this in the cabinet in the bathroom as soon as I move some of Ken's junk, that way you'll know where to find it and use it whenever you want. Oh, here," he opened a package and handed over the toothbrush along with a tube of toothpaste. Aya looked from the items, resting loosely in his half-closed hand, to Yohji, his expression inscrutable. Then, he surprised Yohji.

"Thank you. I," a hesitation, a questioning search of Yohji's face to see if he had said too much before his gaze shifted to the towel, "I appreciate it."

It was so earnest that Yohji had to fight, hard, the fierce urge to hug him.

"You're welcome, Aya. I want you to be comfortable here, so if you need anything, just ask me."

A nod as Aya stared hard at the toothbrush like it was some expensive piece of jewelry rather than a simple necessity. Unable to watch him very long like that, Yohji shifted off the bed and went to dig through their spoils from the day before. Taking out a pair of underwear, boxers, white but silky, he removed the tags and handed them to Aya. The boy set down the toothbrush like he was reluctant to relinquish it, but stood and slipped into the boxers. Ducking his head, he stood quietly as Yohji tried to sort through the clothes, thinking he really ought to have hung them up, but realty space in his closet was a dear commodity.

Deciding it wasn't going to be a quick process, he sent Aya back to the bathroom to brush his teeth (which the boy seemed more than eager to do) and used to time to try and locate an appropriate outfit for his makeshift debutante. He certainly wouldn't have Aya coming out in the orange sweater. The guys would see it soon enough, but Yohji didn't want that fashion disaster falling on his head.

Laying out clothes as he went, Yohji located a pair of light wash jeans with a slight flare at the ankles. These he paired with a button-down shirt of royal blue, the one with three-forth sleeves that he thought accented Aya's slender waist. He had just located an undershirt and socks when Aya returned.

Gesturing to the pile of items on the floor, Yohji let Aya set down his toothbrush-treasure before suggesting that he dress. The boy did so carefully, as if unsure of exactly how the act was accomplished. He paused more than once, staring at this or that or just the floor, but finally ended up neatly attired and standing by the bed smoothing and resmoothing the creaseless tails of his shirt.

"Looks good," Yohji commented, scanning him up and down and finding everything reasonably well-fit. It was a vast improvement over the rolled up jeans and short sleeved shirts the boy had borrowed over the past few days. "Sit down for a minute."

Aya complied in his usual fashion, and Yohji rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. New clothes or not, the boy still thought he belonged on the floor. Grabbing one of the last items from the bag, Yohji took a seat on the bed, just to the side of Aya in lieu of being directly behind him. Twisting the top off the small, gray container, he rubbed some of the shiny substance on his hands and began to comb it through Aya's hair. The boy's hair responded wonderfully, fuzzy strands smoothed into almost-shining submission as they laid down obediently around Aya's face. Moving to crouch in front of the boy, Yohji spent a few more minutes styling the eartails until they curled slightly inward on the ends.

He nodded, closing the container and adding it to the growing pile.

Still in front of the boy, Yohji spared one touch to smooth an errant strand of hair then, without thinking too much of it, tilted Aya's chin so the boy met his eyes. Aya was stiff, but he didn't pull away. For a moment, Yohji just looked, trying to sort out the mixed messages of amethyst depths.

His hand dropped away.

~tbc~

Evil Hentai Slug: *looks around cautiously, finds his keeper missing, and smiled rather evily and rather hentaily* Which of you is hentai enough to face my challenge? Review and fill in the blank, dear reader:

The prudes all tell me I'm sick

Because of the things that I lick

I just love to love boys

And to handle their toys

I'm expert at sucking a _ _ _


	33. Secure Me

Notes: I went back to reread some of the early parts of this, and I noticed that my chapters have started to get progressively longer…and that's not the way this is supposed to work (aka short chapters/quick updates) so I'll try hard to get them back down to size to keep up with the pace.

On a Kitty Note: My poor little rescued Aya-kitty is making good progress. She still hides from everyone else, but tonight she came out and wanted me to pet her. And, she's getting her voice back; the first four days she didn't make a sound, but now she whines to get out of her cage. Yohji-kitty is, despite her hard life, basically an attention whore who won't stay off the furniture. There's a certain entertainment value to going around the house saying things like, "Yohji, stop eating all of Aya's food!" and "Yohji, get out of my bed!"

Sorry so many notes this chapter, more content with the next one, promise!

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three: Secure Me

* * *

Yohji stared at the boy kneeling by his feet, his head bent low enough that the blonde could see the thick black collar over the edge of the blue shirt. He felt a surge of pride at the crisp appearance, but it fell away as an awkward silence stretched out in the room. They both knew he was about to remove Aya from the concealing sanctuary of the house, and Yohji found himself dealing with a nervous anticipation that made a beer rather high on his list of things to do, early hour notwithstanding.

He wondered if Aya's new image could withstand the scrutiny of others. Personally, he thought he had done a damn good job, but Yohji wasn't going to argue (even with himself) that he was an impartial judge of the result of a huge effort on his part.

Their trip to the mall had been mostly a success, but it had also occurred under considerably less pressure, like a one night stand. It was a random even populated by disinterested strangers, and a breakdown or scene would be observed with detachment and forgotten within minutes. There Yohji had introduced Aya only to the faceless public, but now he hoped to thrust the boy into another portion of his own life. It was a girlfriend-meets-the-family kind of feeling, and not something Yohji was really into.

Dwelling on it made him upgrade his anticipated beer to a shot of jack.

If all went according to plan, or if they at least managed to skirt the worst of disasters, Aya would become a part of Weiss and the flower shop would be relegated to the position of necessary cover. However, at the moment, Yohji hoped to make it a productive place of reeducation. Aya needed to interact with people, true enough, but he also needed something to do. Yohji had reasoned, in the many early morning hours when Aya stirred with nightmares, that if the other could do some kind of work, accomplish a task on his own, receive something as simple as a paycheck, and see that what he was supposed to be doing wasn't serving Yohji, then he might settle in to that position.

It sounded so easy in his head.

Of course, there was the sister to deal with.

And the collar.

And Aya's general inability to interact with people.

Two steps forwards and ten back, but wasn't that the story of his life?

While Yohji was admittedly fumbling through some major decisions, Aya was more than confused at the moment; Yohji could sense it in his movements, occasionally seeing it in his eyes along with more perilous reactions. Tossing him out into the shop wasn't going to be a cure-all. He doubted that Aya would accept that he was going to be an independent employee, so it had to, initially, be construed as an extension of his servitude unless Yohji wanted to run the risk of him rejecting the entire project on the basis of his old master's rules.

God, he wanted to kill that bastard. He would give up liquor for a month to do that.

So, he would play along. For now.

"You're gonna work in the shop," he began, anxious of the rest. "You'll have something to do, then, and . . . you'll probably like it."

That hadn't been what he'd rehearsed awkwardly in front of the bathroom mirror where he told an imaginary Aya that it was a cover for his slavery; the falsity of keeping Aya's status a secret had choked in his throat. Yohji just couldn't make peace with the boy thinking that the older man thought of him as a slave. Weighing necessity against discomfort, his and Aya's, Yohji pressed on, silently promising painful revenge against anyone and everyone who had put him in the situation.

"Outside, in the shop and other places, you can't act like this, Aya," he sat a little wearily on the bed, picking a thread on the comforter as Aya sat submissively next to his feet. "I know it's what you're used to, but . . . well, I can't very well drag you around on a leash."

Damn, okay, that was a stupid ass thing to say. He looked up from the floor to check, but Aya's hadn't reacted.

"I mean, ah, wait, turn around."

He did, shifting gracefully so he knelt even closer in front of Yohji, staring at the carpet between the blonde's socked feet.

"Aya, I want you to be happy. I want…look at me. Okay. I want to give you some rules to make this easier."

Aya stared not at his face, but at the watch on his left wrist. He looked so different after Yohji's attentions, so much more . . . human. Everything but the collar and the eyes which had gone suddenly distant.

~tbc~

Evil Hentai Slug: The results of Round One of our hentai limerick challenge: Three points for the winner, Kate the Night, for "man-stick!" *laughs evily* Honorable mention and two points go to Cody Thomas (who had the guts to say what you were all thinking) and icantseeyourstar (for the kinkiest answer). The grand prize winner will get something special…something with a "man-stick"…be prepared for Round Two next chapter and hone your skills by reviewing naughtily.


	34. Shackle Me

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews! They keep me dedicated to this fic, and I really hope it doesn't disappoint. I promise we're moving towards some plot action, within the next five or six chapters I think.

Chapter Warnings (which I haven't been remembering to give…sorry): violence, abuse, slight gore, blood

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Four: Shackle Me

* * *

"_Are you stupid, Ran?"_

_The grip on his hair tightened, dragging his head up to see Crawford's face, too close as the man stared into his eyes._

"_You must be."_

_His hair was released, and his head fell to rest on his chest. He couldn't hold it up anymore, and were it not for the shackles that suspended his arms above his head and held him up against the stone wall of the basement room, he would have collapsed. Unconsciousness threatened, and only the thought of would happen should he give in kept him in the world of the waking._

"_Do you enjoy being punished?"_

_He wanted to laugh at Crawford's slow, deliberate questions. He wanted to growl at the man and spit at him. He wanted to bang his owner's head repeatedly against the stones and then ask if he enjoyed it._

"_Do you get off on it?"_

_Aya did his best to raise he head and give a glare of denial. How could he like this? Though Farfarello had left some time ago, Aya could still feel warm blood tricking down the back of his neck from where the man had ground his head against a sharp edge of stone. His arms ached as he hung just high enough that he was unable to brace himself, and his wrists bled from fighting against the Irishman's blows. There hadn't been knives; Crawford didn't like them , and he had staid to watch this time. Aya had caught glimpses of a white suit in the dark corner as Farfarello hit him, sometimes with his hands and sometimes with a piece of metal, a pipe or bar. Aya didn't know which had come first, remembering only the sharp pain of each blow to his chest and stomach that forced air and blood from him._

"_You're disgusting, Ran. Stupid, dirty, useless."_

_He coughed, the movement racking his body with pain and bringing another spatter of blood to lips. _

"_I give you simple rules, and you break them."_

_It hurt._

"_Do you remember what you did?"_

_He couldn't seem to get enough air, each breath bringing only a burn to his lungs._

_Crawford backhanded him across the face, the crack of the blow sounding loud in the quiet room._

"_Answer me, slave. Do you remember what you did?"_

"_Yes," he gasped, trying to pull himself up by his arms in order to breath. _

_Another strike to the same cheek; it was a meager distraction to the other sensations._

"_Yes, Master."_

_This time a fist to his stomach that made him fight again for consciousness as the room swam._

"_Don't make me repeat myself," Crawford looked him up and down, stepped back, and removed his jacket. _

_Aya tried to focus, but the room was blurred._

"_What did you do, Ran?"_

_To not answer would be to suffer more._

"_I," a gasp, his voice quiet and wet, "broke your rule…Master."_

"_What rule did you break?" Crawford began to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. _

_The room began to fade. There was a sharp tug as Crawford grabbed the collar, yanking it forward only to shove Aya's head back into the wall again._

"_I . . ." What had he done? Aya frantically wracked his brain for the offense, finding the memory clouded over by the torture afterwards. "I . . ." He struggled to breathe, remember, and remain conscious. What had he, oh. "My collar… I," his voice broke off in a choked gasp that almost frightened him, then he coughed and went on, "took it off."_

"_Yes. You do not remove your collar." The grip on his hair was back, twisting it at the roots as he was forced to look up. "That says you're mine, Ran. My boy, my slave, my little slut. I was lenient this time." _

_His other hand went to stroke Aya's neck, just above the collar, but he drew it way quickly when he found his favorite place coated in blood. He wiped it down Aya's bruised side, leaving a wide, red smear as his hand settled on the other's thin waist. _

"_If you do it again, I will not be so kind."_

_The hand squeezed at his waist, hard, pressing against the abused organs inside and causing him to whine quietly in pain._

"_Yes, that's right. You must learn. Remember, Ran, if you can't follow the rules, I will find someone who can. And who is more compliant than someone who never wakes up?"_

_The thinly veiled threat to his sister took the last of the fight from him, and Aya held very still when Crawford leaned forward to kiss his bloody lips.

* * *

_

"Are you alright?" he asked, trying to check in without putting his hand on the boy's shoulder.

There was a small nod, and, Yohji wasn't sure, maybe a little shudder. He took a breath and summoned a degree of authority into his voice.

"Listen, Aya," he paused to clear his throat, a cover for the sudden realization that his voice came out sounding like Balinese. He continued, laying out the rules he thought Aya needed, "Don't sit on the floor when other people are around."

"Yes, Yohji," his voice was quiet and flat.

"Don't tell people you belong to me, and walk beside, not behind. Remember, we're friends, right?"

"Yes, Yohji." His name was definitely being used as a title rather than an address.

"Don't be so quiet. Answer people when they talk to you or ask you questions, and look at them not at the floor."

"Yes, Yohji." Was this really the right thing to do? His doubts began to solidify with every cold answer. He wanted Aya to yell at him, to tell him that he didn't need his damn rules. But he went on.

"Don't let anyone hurt you. If they do, you tell me."

"Yes, Yohji." If Aya noted the difference in the rules, that they weren't to harm him, he gave no sign.

"Don't do anything that you don't want to, no matter who tells you to. Even me."

A hesitant pause, then, "Yes, Yohji."

The blonde nodded, feeling dirty. The tense stillness only added to the feeling he had erred, and he scratched at his arm as if physical grime might appear there.

The only relief he could find was in the slight relaxing of Aya's shoulders which spoke, he hoped, of the comfort the boy received from having his temporary position laid out more plainly before him. It seemed like a meager compensation. Why the hell was he always the bad guy?

Yohji forced down the frustration he felt, along with a sudden, irrational urge to simply put Aya on a leash and be done with it. He really needed a drink.

"C'mon, let's grab some breakfast before work."

* * *

Aya tried to shake off the memory and listen attentively to his owner's rules, anticipating instructions of submission and service in preparation of a test of some sort or retribution for those unknowingly broken. He confirmed each, and waited for a blow; he clenched his teeth, silently vowing not to flinch when it happened.

It didn't. The quiet continued; though he could see his owner's displeasure, he didn't know how to assuage it beyond taking his punishment without a fight. Part of him was relived, but another coiled even tighter in anticipation and concern. Confused and tired, Aya let his shoulders fall, just slightly, from their drawn up posture.

Yohji looked at him over the edge of the dark glasses he wore, and Aya saw a flash of something dark in jade eyes. Quickly, he lowered his head, unwillingly recalling the vivid image of the wire pulling tight around Kaimo's neck. He barely resisted lifting a hand to the collar at his throat.

What did these rules do if not to provide Yohji standards to punish by? They didn't offer a way to serve his owner. As much as Aya wanted to be pleased by the further proof of Yohji's sincerity, doubts, fueled by that dark look, clung to his hope, dragging it down. What would Schuldig think if he came and read Yohji's thoughts? He would see that Aya failed to please the man, that Aya made him angry and disappointed (he had seen that much on Yohji's face) but very rarely pleased, that Aya did nothing for him and, worse, accepted no punishment for his deficiency but rewards for nothing more than following his owner around. Schuldig might punish him or take him away; it was this that haunted Aya, trumped in frequency only by the second, underlying thought that came forward again and again with nothing to combat its insistence: he deserved to be punished.

~tbc~

Evil Hentai Slug: Quickly before she catches me, on to Round Two of our official Hentai Limerick Challenge:

_Ah, Bishounen, you're quite a sight_

_With those pants deliciously tight_

_Let's get out of the bar_

_And go back to my car_

_Where I can _ _ __

Care to try your hand at it, reader? Or at least leave a review?


	35. Show Me

Chapter Thirty-Five: Show Me

* * *

He found him self suddenly and unexpectedly without breath, registering the pain in his head seconds later as he stared into steely blue eyes. Brad had done it again, eluding his powers and grabbing him before Schuldig even had a chance to get away. Not that he would try, really, but, damn, he liked to have a little warning.

Brad glared; Schuldig smiled. At least until Crawford hit him, the punch landing hard in his stomach and causing him to double over. The other man released him, letting Schuldig clutch his middle as he stepped away, still glaring and obviously debating whether he was done with the abuse.

/Bad day, Bradley dear?/

"What did you do?"

"Eh?" He looked up, then shifted to lean against the wall.

"With the boy. What idiotic stunt have you pulled?"

"What're you talking about? I took him to Joji."

"Who did he go to?"

Schuldig's smile returned, widened as he straightened up. Pushing off the wall, he moved to lean against the edge of Crawford's desk, a position that annoyed the other man. Affecting casual ease, he rifled through some papers lying there.

"I thought you didn't want to know," he goaded. "Missing him already?"

Crawford took a single breath, returning to a cold calm, "The visions have changed. Ran has returned."

"He'll replace Fujimiya?" He didn't see how it was possible. Surely the kid had lost the will to be the defender of human rights his old man had been, not to mention he would now lack the education and skills to assume Fujimiya's position and interfere with Takatori's plans, let alone . . .

"No. That threat is passed."

"So what's the problem, Brad?"

"Don't call me that," he paused to wipe his glasses and replace them. "There's something else, vague at this point. Go check on the boy."

He nodded.

"And Schuldig?"

A raised eyebrow.

"If you've done something stupid, fix it before I have to."

* * *

Crawford watched the redhead leave, a hand thrown up in farewell, too smug for his own good.

He was considerably less confident, especially now.

Three months into his detainment of the Fujimiya brat his visions had begun to shift in the proper direction, always clearing as the boy's influence in them faded. The more he suffered, the more he broke, the clearer the future became. By seven months he was relegated to the place most beneficial to their cause, and by nine it was starting to cement into an almost-definite occurrence.

It might have been best to keep him, but Crawford had encountered difficulties. The boy heard too much, and he wasn't to be underestimated even in his current state. Too often Crawford had seen those dark, tired eyes turned up with attention. Besides, Farfarello, skilled but as difficult to predict as the boy, had been too long indulged and was getting too free in his punishments; they couldn't afford to kill him. And then there was Schuldig who was forming an unhealthy attachment to Ran despite the pathetic mess they had reduced him to, or maybe because of it. While he had little concern over the emotional involvements of his associates beyond where they affected their larger purpose, there was a tingle of warning about this one. The boy had to go.

Hoping to keep his visions pure, without the influence of knowledge of the whereabouts of Fujimiya's son, Crawford had ordered Schuldig to dispose of the boy in a safe place to wait. Takatori had been kind enough to direct him to Kaimo's trading post; though Crawford found the man generally insufferable, that tip had been useful. They had made sure that Ran would continue to occupy the submissive post of a slave, ensuring he would not stumble into the role of his dead father, and found a place to store him until the moment arrived when his involvement became necessary. If he was fractured further, all the better.

But something was wrong. Red hair and violet eyes were once more flitting around the edges of Crawford's visions, and there was the creeping blur of uncertainty.

* * *

Ken was wrestling with a small bouquet of delicate pink pansies. It had to be delivered to the hospital by one, and Yohji really ought to have been down to finish it. Ken was not, by his own admission, not to mention to the physical evidence of the mauled pansies, an expert florist. Delicacy was not his thing, and had Kritiker given him a choice of career, florist would have been way down on the list, if it made the list at all.

"Damnit," he swore as a stem slipped its ribbon again.

Only the jingle of the bells above the door saved the poor pansy from being tossed to the floor and stomped on; Ken thought it should consider itself lucky that old Hamami-san had arrived and staved off its immediate doom. It was, after all, almost impossible to be angry in the face of the elderly woman's stooped, little presence. Ken hurried to finish opening the door for her, standing there a long time as she shuffled into the shop.

"Thank you, Hidaka-san," she smiled as she propped herself on her cane to rest just inside the door. Hamami-san had been a member of high society in her day, and despite her unfortunate loss of status, she bore herself with dignity.

"You're welcome," he replied with a genuine smile for the lady and her immaculate, if worn, traditional dress. "Can I help you with something?"

"Hm," she paused to think, her thin lips pursing slightly, "May I see the carnations you have today?"

He nodded and, offering his arm, led the woman slowly towards the storage cases where she looked intently at the three buckets of carnations. She shook her head, tight bun of gray head moving slowly side to side as she squinted to observe the flowers.

"They're rather pretty," she commented, ever polite even when she was clearly displeased with the quality.

"We've got some new tulips." He pointed, and she shuffled to look at them.

"Yes. Quite nice. May I have two of the yellow, please?"

"Sure thing."

He released her arm to draw out two of the best-looking yellow tulips, taking them carefully to the work table and trying to prepare them without damaging them. He was watched closely at every turn, and made sure not to bend the leaves. It was a trial, but the two blooms ended up, thankfully, wrapped in green paper without much of a struggle on their parts. Ken wondered if it was Hamami-san's influence or if tulips were just naturally more docile than pansies.

Pausing to let the woman take his arm again, Ken began the slow walk back to the register. They were halfway across the store when a loud voice halted their progress, and Ken found his arm suddenly void of old woman.

"Such a vision of loveliness! Ken, why didn't you tell me our store was graced by such a gorgeous girl?"

"Oh, Kudou-san, you flatter an old woman," she scolded, but there was a smile on her wrinkled face as she tilted up a cheek for Yohji to kiss.

"Never. Beauty knows nothing of age," he responded quickly.

"Say that when you're old," was the pleasant reply as he turned her back towards the registers, and then all conversation stopped.

Ken was stunned as his eyes caught the flash of red and blue, wondering, just for a second, if he had missed the sound of the door when a customer came in. He instantly felt slow for not recognizing Aya, but to be fair, the boy standing in front of him didn't look much like the pathetic thing that had shown up in their kitchen.

Aya was hovering near the entrance of the store, seemingly frozen by their attention, his back stiff and hands clenched around the hem of his blue shirt. He looked . . . different, like he had shed the sloppy, neglected demeanor for something sleek and otherworldly. It was his eyes, Ken decided, that made it seem so; they were wide in his surprise at the sudden attention, bright, and framed by the scarlet hair that no longer obscured them completely but rather hung to frame his face. This was angular, more so in its thinness, but unmistakably attractive, more pretty than handsome with its fine brows and narrow chin.

He looked taller than Ken would have thought, and though slender, it wasn't nearly as off-putting as when his borrowed clothes did their best to fall off his boney frame. Now he looked lean, maybe on the too-thin side of the spectrum, but not completely swallowed by the fitted blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms and light jeans that fell at the proper length over black shoes. He could see the collar; the silver ring on the front made it hard to miss, but it seemed mellowed by white t-shirt, just visible underneath, and blue collar, opened to either side when it wouldn't, Ken supposed, button all the way over the thing.

Still, Aya looked…

Normal. It shocked Ken, and he looked to Yohji, silently asking how the man had pulled it off in a single night. But Yohji was staring at Aya, too, like he hadn't just brought the guy with him. His shades had fallen as he leaned to kiss Hamami-san, and Ken saw a mix of pride and something else, he wasn't sure, in green eyes as the blonde appreciated his own work.

Aya shifted uncomfortably, and Yohji was quick to move.

"Ah, let me introduce you," he offered, stepping between them. "Aya, this is Hamami Tomo-san, one of our best customers. Hamami-san, this is," he paused, and Ken could tell he was a little startled, but at what the brunette wasn't sure. Yohji covered quickly, and he wasn't sure anyone else noticed. "This is Aya; he's our new florist."

"Oh my, another one," she shook her head and offered Aya a reserved smile. "It's nice to meet you, Aya-san. Tell me, what do you think of my tulips?"

His eyes snapped to Yohji, and following, Ken saw the older man motion him forward. Realizing that the object in question was still in his own hand and unsure whether Aya would actually come close to him, Ken shuffled them quickly to Yohji who held them out for Aya's inspection, looking nervous as violet eyes rested on the yellow blooms for a long minute.

Then, not without another look to Yohji, Aya lifted his eyes to meet Hamami-san's small, brown ones.

"They're beautiful," he said, his voice quiet, but smoother and deeper than Ken had anticipated.

The little woman beamed at his sincerity, but her closed-lipped smiled couldn't rival the bright grin on Yohji's face.

"Yes," she nodded, "You'll do just fine."

~tbc~

Evil Hentai Slug: My, my reader, you are quite the skilled poets…or the skilled hentais…either way, I'm quite impressed. The results of round two are as follows: three points to our winner Cody-san on mm . net who found the exact phrase I had in mind making a delicious rhyme. Choosing runners up was much harder! Two points go to macDhai for the answer you gave the sorcerer (I'm jealous you know, I had to pay a high price to pry that from her…though it's not as if I mind wearing the collar…), two to blackorcid (that's always the idea, right?), two to Kate the Night (who has a brilliant way with words), and two for CurasiTayo (because biting is always the answer). Round three is next; are you *prepared* reader?


	36. Study Me

Notes: I'm sorry for the delay in posting, but I did have a good reason…well, sort of. There weren't very many reviews last chapter, but this fic has the most reviews I've ever gotten (thank you all so much! you spoil me and I love it!) so I was determined to do better this time. I think there was a general consensus that Yohji needs some positive reinforcement and that it's about time for something to happen, so I drug out the plot muse, but all Subaru-san did was fight with the Evil Hentai Slug…and by fight I mean be propositioned…not so helpful. So, I wrote it sans-wonderful inspiration; it seemed to develop too quickly, so I fretted over it, rewrote it, yelled at it, deleted it, rewrote it again and glared at it for a while. Sigh. Now, I'm handing it over. I can only hope these two chapters don't disappoint too badly. Thanks for reading everyone!

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Six: Study Me

* * *

The door swung shut behind Hamami-san, and for a minute, Yohji watched her through the glass, her tulips folded into her elbow as she worked her way slowly down the street towards, he knew, the grave of her husband. The man had been dead for over twenty years, but she still took him flowers every week. The blonde wondered at that kind of devotion, realizing, not for the first time, that he probably wouldn't live long enough to experience it.

The loud ding of the register jerked him out of his melancholy thoughts, and as he simultaneously saw Aya start at the noise, Yohji realized he ought to have been celebrating a victory rather than dwelling on the incurable condition of his career.

Really, he couldn't help but like the questioning look Aya was giving him. First, because the boy was actually looking at him, albeit hesitantly, and , second, because the question was obviously how he had done and not if Yohji would hit him.

Yohji smiled, trying not to grab the other and screw up his progress. "Not so hard, right?"

Expecting a mellowed return of his own excitement, Yohji watched Aya's expression shift to one of confusion then, just to elude his ideal again, when he thought it might be a smile, it moved to a rather blank look that revealed nothing of what the other was thinking. It wasn't the distant, gone look of that morning, but it wasn't good.

"Aya?"

Recognizing this as a summons, purple eyes tuned to his own.

"Okay?"

"Yes, Yohji." At the name, Yohji was glad to see the almost-confused expression return, melting into what he thought of as Aya's thinking face, where the boy's brows drew just a little together and he stared hard at something, usually his hands. Getting Aya to talk beyond set answers to direct inquiries was high on his to-do list, right under getting the collar off him, so Yohji waited. Then, when the silence earned him only a look from Ken, asked, "Question?"

There was an awkward second where Aya looked like he had been caught at something, but he seemed to rally his courage, or choose his words, and finally got out, "What will I do here?"

"Jeez, Yohji," Ken leaned over the register, "Did you just wake him up and drag him down here?"

"Shut up, Ken!"

Yohji regretted his snap when he turned back to Aya to find the boy's head once more down, his hands clenched tight at his sides.

"Shit, Aya," he started, sparing a glare at Ken for egging him on in the first place, "never mind him. Come on, come here."

He spent half an hour showing Aya around the shop, his mood improving with every bit of genuine interest the boy displayed. He seemed most struck by the flowers themselves, and Yohji ended his tour beside the chilled display cases. Aya seemed in no hurry to move as he stood staring into the cooler with an expression that was difficult to interpret until he reached a hand up to rest his fingertips reverently against the glass. Yohji wondered how long it had been since Aya had seen anything as pleasant as the variety of blooms, but he thought it better to ask something less distasteful.

"You like flowers?" The question seemed rather simple and stupid, and he wondered if Ken was rolling his eyes.

"I," he stopped to consider. Yohji had seen that look before, too, when the boy was trying to come up with a color he liked. It seemed Aya was long out of practice talking about himself. "Yes, I like them."

"Yeah?" he kept his voice casual, trying hard not to smile too widely when Aya continued, voice barely above a whisper.

"Fragile beauty that fades even as we admire it."

Yohji was stunned into silence in the face of this eloquence. Having heard little beyond affirmative agreements from the other, he was unprepared for the poetic answer that, given a second to realize he had said it out loud, seemed to distress Aya. Dropping his hand away from the glass, he ducked his head, swallowed hard, and waited, apparently, for a reprimand.

"I like that, but it's kind of depressing, don't you think?"

"Yes, Yohji," the boy replied, his tone losing all of the soft variation and taking on the dull note of recitation. It might have angered Yohji, but he was riding a high from having glimpsed something rather genuine that had slipped through the cracked persona of submissive slave. It assuaged the threat that there was nothing left beneath it. He had dealt with dark beasts, had seen, saved even, as much as that was possible, more than one person who was nothing but a hollow thing with empty eyes.

There was nothing to do in those cases. And that futility threatened with Aya; Yohji often had a feeling that his kind gestures had about as much effect as running headfirst against a brick wall, but maybe he and his hard head were chipping away at the rock-hard shell Aya's captors had forced him into. This effort had been first rewarded with only anger, that explosive admittance of confusion, but this small fragment of expression gave him hope of something better. Now, if Aya would just get on board and say what he was thinking without having to be goaded into every tiny admission of independent thought.

Yeah, that would be nice. But then, who would he share the awkward silences with?

Aya was human, and Yohji was determined to make the boy live that way, despite his charge's adamant refusal to do so.

He could do it. He had the power of positive thought on his side! And no one could resist the charms of Yohji Kudou, Tokyo's favorite playboy turned therapist!

However, for the next few minutes, despite his best efforts, all said playboy got were the standard "Yes, Yohji" replies and few of those. Trying to fight back the frustration at his progress being stymied by some bastard's conditioning, Yohji repeated his mantra of positive thought, handed Aya a broom, and set him to sweeping the shop while he went to help Ken salvage an arrangement of pansies that had seen better days.

* * *

The solidity of the broom in his hand was comforting, and Aya let his hands mind the repetitive task without over thinking it. He was grateful for the chore, and even more appreciative of the fact that his owner had stopped asking him questions. This sudden onslaught of disjointed curiosity, he knew, had been set off by his lapse. He's answered without thinking, a habit that had often gotten his face slapped if he was lucky; most of the time, he wasn't, and Crawford favored a gag to reinforce the idea of quiet.

He wiped a hand across his mouth, remembering the uncomfortable pull of the leather strap often used for the purpose.

He had been distracted earlier. His arrival here seemed a culmination of the strange week he had spent adjusting, or failing to adjust, to the expectations of his new owner. It was strange to be dressed, collared but not leashed, to be allowed to go to the restroom by himself and to stand across the room from his owner without rope or bond or threat of weapon. Nothing really hurt; there was a slight soreness in his back and thighs from Kaimo, but the only added injuries had been those he had stupidly committed himself. (And that had to stop, he reprimanded the disobedient portion of his psyche that submitted under stress). Yohji hadn't harmed him. He had bought him new things, cleaned him, dressed him, and even given Aya a toothbrush.

He realized, in a disconnected fashion, that these were normal things, but having been long deprived of them, they loomed large in Aya's perception of his new environment. He had found himself, within the space of a week, transformed from a bleeding, broken wreck, a slave or slut or whatever derogatory thing Crawford would have to something that was perceived as human. He hardly felt he had achieved the mark, but he was clean and able, tired but allowed to walk about, in short, much closer than he had been. Aya wasn't really sure how to deal with the situation, but he wasn't stupid enough to wish for its reversal; of course, he also knew there was no guarantee of its extension.

How long would he stay in his owner's good graces? How long would his work here consist of such simple tasks as sweeping the store?

Whatever he had expected from Yohji's mention of "the shop," it hadn't been the bright, open space his owner had led him into. One wall was almost entirely composed of clear glass, windows and the door, flooding the tiled room with light. And it was clean and neat and permeated by the sweet smell of flowers that reminded him of his mother's garden. How long had it been since he had knelt beside her to plant the little seedlings?

When not with Crawford or Schuldig, being trotted about their plush suites, he had been confined to the closed, dark basement room where Farfarello came and went, where the floor was always sticky with his blood, where sick, dank odors assaulted him. Here, following Yohji from one station to another—displays, register, work table, back room—he had been overwhelmed. Was it any surprise he had forgotten to censer his responses? It was not an excuse for his behavior, but it went a long ways towards explaining it.

Aya couldn't afford those kinds of mistakes. But it was difficult to be on constant guard when his surroundings were so . . . nice. His owner had not relegated him to a back room or even tied him to the table leg. He wondered how much of this was pretense to avoid public exposure, but his owner didn't act very different when they were alone. He realized yet again that Yohji had kept his word in every case.

As Aya turned to drag a scattering of dirt from the corner, he covertly observed his owner from beneath his bangs.

It had been a week; he knew because his owner made no attempt to hide calendars or clocks the way Crawford had, and Aya was allowed to sleep in normal patterns that seemed to aid his previously faltering sense of time. In that measured span, Yohji hadn't raised his hands in anger despite Aya's near constant failures.

After one week with Crawford, he had been beaten, bruised, chained, humiliated . . . he shuddered, trying to put away the memory before it solidified completely. They were painfully vivid sometimes, but the brightness of the place helped. And there was Yohji, who brought him here. A part of Aya, the part that still dared, wanted desperately to believe Yohji when he said he didn't keep Aya for the things Crawford did. Maybe he already believed that, cautiously and with reservation; there was, he knew, a fresh shoot of green trust all too ready to grow.

Aya wondered if he had anything left to lose by letting it.

~tbc~

Miko: Hm…it seems the slug is busy chasing Subaru-san, but I'm sure he'll be back to continue this…thing…you have going. Oh, and Subaru-san wants you to –

Subaru: *running by* All I want are my pants back!

Miko: *looks on in vague disinterest* It seems the slug is winning. Reviewing might distract him, ne?


	37. Spare Me

Shorter chapters and faster posting…FAIL.

Another long chapter this time, but there's plot in the works. And I think Schu will be back next chapter.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Spare Me

* * *

"Just fix it," Ken whined, burying his head with his hands to escape Yohji's teasing.

"I am," Yohji defended already working over the bouquet, poking and prodding it in ways that made no sense to Ken but seemed to make it better. "But please tell me you don't handle everything this roughly."

Ken sensed the innuendo, but he didn't spend time obsessing over it. As soon as the pansies looked halfway decent, he snatched them from the blonde and hurried out to do the deliveries. He was released only on the condition that he swore to be back by three. Yohji, apparently, didn't intend to introduce Aya to the fan girls.

* * *

When he had finished the floor, Aya had approached Yohji with more trepidation than the other thought the task merited. The boy had hesitated at the table, obviously uncomfortable standing over him but knowing he wasn't supposed to sit on the floor either. Yohji had given him a few minutes, and he had finally gotten out that he was finished sweeping. It had hurt that he flinched back when Yohji stood, but he had vowed to be positive in the face of difficulty; it was nothing a cold beer wouldn't fix, after all. Since he had been lacking said saving grace of a beer at that point, Yohji committed the improvement to time, and found something else for Aya to do.

The redhead took to the windows with careful determination, though Yohji thought he was new at the chore, taking a minute or two to adjust the cloth and figure out which swipes didn't leave marks on the clear surface. Yohji hated doing windows, and though he felt slightly guilty at shifting the task onto Aya, the boy seemed glad to do something and relaxed into the physical chore. He stopped only when customers entered; the occurrence was thankfully rare as it made him instantly anxious. Even from across the room, Yohji's eyes had been drawn to him each time, watching his whole body tense as he took a few steps backwards. For the most part, he had let Aya get through it on his own. However, the entrance of one dark-haired man actually had him backing into the corner, and Yohji quickly intercepted the customer and drew him away. Only when the man left had Aya resumed washing the windows.

Now the shop was empty.

Finishing up another order, Yohji let his eyes drift to Aya's back. His hair was made bright by the afternoon light and as he stretched upwards, the hem of his blue shirt lifted to reveal the proper fit of the jeans, causing Yohji to note the way they hugged the curve of his ass, making it look—

Yohji stopped mid-thought, determinately dragging his gaze back up and dismissing the slip as habit. He watched, instead, the slight droop of thin shoulders just before the boy again reached up. He was tired, Yohji realized, regretting he hadn't thought of it sooner. Though their shopping trip had proven Aya to have decent stamina (or determination), that had been preceded by two days of enforced rest. Even after a night's sleep, the heat of the tub had almost taken him out, so he obviously wasn't fully recovered; how could he be after such an extensive span of abuse? Maybe that's what Omi had been babbling about the other night. Damn, he should have listened, but, having many of them delivered on the topic of his vices, he tended to check out at the first hint of a lecture.

But, as Omi kept trying to remind him, rescuing Aya didn't make him all better. There were probably injuries Yohji couldn't see, and the boy had yet to keep down a decent meal since he arrived. Yohji sighed; he just wasn't used to taking care of people. Most of the time, he could barely take care of himself. Thankfully, the power of observation was on his side, otherwise he would be royally screwed, especially with someone who complained as little as Aya.

"Aya." He turned quickly, and Yohji caught a flash of fear in his eyes. Positive thoughts; he had to remember that. "That's good enough. Set it down and come here a minute."

There was a nervous hesitation, but Aya took the chair next to Yohji after the blonde patted it twice in invitation. Tucking his hands in his lap, he stared at the tabletop.

"Look here," Yohji instructed, pulling out a new sheet of green paper, "Let's start with the basics."

* * *

Yohji found Aya to be an attentive student and far more receptive than Ken. Slight nods left him wishing he had some type of formal training or theory to share, or at least professional instruction beyond the skills he had picked up during the haphazard orientation; Manx's contact had done little more than shove a stack of Xeroxed papers in his hands and toss together a few sample bouquets before he was left to his own devices. Most of his prowess had been developed by trial and error, and he was about to let Aya go the same route when the bells cut loudly into his instruction.

Expecting Ken back from deliveries, Yohji looked up to find Omi tossing his school bag under the counter.

That was bad. Unless Omi was early, it was worse than bad.

"Yohji-kun, do you think—"

"Omi, what time is—"

Neither managed a full thought before the rush was suddenly upon them. The quiet of the shop was suddenly disrupted by the flit and flip of skirts, the quiet disturbed by a variety of female voices all raised to excited pitches. Yohji could never figure out how so many girls managed to get into the shop so fast; it was like some perverse magic trick, and while usually amused by their antics, he didn't need to look over to Aya to know the situation wasn't going to be good.

"Omi-kun, you ran off so fast!"

"Didn't you hear Miki call after you?"

"We were gonna walk home with you!"

"Can you help me find a birthday present for Sanako-san? Something pink?"

"Aa," Omi's voice was heard for only a second before it was swallowed in the din.

Yohji thanked whatever gods looked out for attractive florists that he and Aya had chosen to work at the back table partially obscured by a few displays. They hadn't been spotted just yet, most of the first girls having followed Omi directly and currently engaged in prying out details of his school day.

"Misato Sensei was so cruel, don't you think Omi-kun? So much work!"

"Did you get the assignment for algebra II? Do you want to work together? I'll order take out!"

"No, Na-chan, Omi-kun's going to study English with me tonight!"

There was a brief denial from the boy in question.

"The present, Omi-kun, please!"

"Are there new roses today?"

Silently, Yohji reached out to touch Aya's elbow; the boy jumped, but sat still as Yohji took loose hold of his upper arm. When violet eyes snapped to him, he motioned for quiet with a finger across his lips, not that it was necessary. Aya nodded and at Yohji's slight tug, stood; they had been sitting close, and stood even closer, Yohji's hand holding him mere inches from the blonde's side. Yohji could smell the boy's lotion and thought, just for a second, that the soft fabric of the shirt couldn't compare to Aya's skin.

No. No, no, no. The hair, the jeans, the skin— it was all just something his mind did, but it needed to stop, quick, before he got any ideas. Berating his brain for being two-thirds a pervert, Yohji demanded it shut up about Aya being warm at his side and get them out of their current situation.

He was an assassin for fuck's sake; he could outmaneuver twenty teenage girls.

Make that thirty.

Surveying the room tactically, he realized the girls were blocking both the front door and, his first hope of escape, the break room. Their only solution was the door that led into the house. It was further away, but if they could slip along the cooler, maybe knock out the two girls there…damn, but he would give his right foot for some chloroform. In the process of trying to catch Omi's eye and ask for a proper distraction, Yohji heard it, the high-pitched death toll for his half-baked plan.

"Oh my god! Who is that?"

Positive thought got plowed over by dread.

All eyes were suddenly upon them, and the crowd converged in an instant, surrounding the small work table. Though they were all a good six inches shorter than either man, the sheer amount of girls, along with their overeager attitudes, made the situation claustrophobic. Yohji's hand tightened around Aya's arm as he tried to think.

"Now, ladies—"

"Who is he, Yohji-kun?" came from somewhere to his left.

"Does he work here?" from his right.

"Look that hair!" from a small blonde in the front. "I love that color!"

"He's so pale and thin, just like—"

"Totally visual kei!"

"Look, Ayumi-chan, his eyes!"

"Wow! I'm in love!"

"You're cheating on Yohji-san, Mitsuo!"

"Never! Double date!"

"Is he your friend, Yohji-san?"

"Can I get his phone number? Birth date? Blood type?"

"Girls, if you'll—"

A camera flashed, leaving Aya blinking and taking a step back only to find the crowd just as close behind them. Without thinking, Yohji drew the boy closer to him, shifting his arm to lay over Aya's shoulders. God, he was trembling. Damn it. He had worked too hard to be set back by overeager teenagers that did not need to try to touch his Aya.

"Should we buy him a flower, Saa-chan?"

"Yeah! What's your favorite, uh…"

"His name, Kira-chan! Ask him!"

"Oh, he's so handsome! I just can't!"

When the first reaching hand made contact, Aya made a small sound in the back of his throat, closing his eyes tight and tucking his head down. Yohji hated it; the boy either thought he was going to be hurt or, more likely and somehow worse, was thinking of some other time he had been. Yohji felt the slight tug on his arm, like Aya intended to sink to the floor, to protect himself. No. No fucking way. He wasn't going to let this happen.

He might have said excuse me, but he doubted it. Pulling Aya tight against him, Yohji pushed his way through the dense ring of girls. He took an elbow to the side for his trouble, and there was a cry of desperation that went up from the group, punctuated distantly by the louder cry of one particularly adamant girl who landed on her ass as Yohji shoved by.

"Yohji-san!"

"Where are you going, Yohji-san?"

"What's wrong?"

"Come back!"

"Omi!" he called as he cleared the worst of the crowd, noting the quick nod from the blonde. They might have pursued, but Omi stepped in quickly, trying to distract the upset girls left in Yohji wake, potted sunflower used tactfully as a blocking shield.

The noise continued behind them, but the pleas had little effect; Yohji couldn't care less about the tears a few of the drama queens were shedding even before he gained the door, and as for the ones that were holding their camera phones, he was ready to strangle the lot of them. Couldn't they be calm for two fucking seconds? Normal customers let a guy leave a room and didn't fucking touch employees without permission. Damn!

By the time he got to the kitchen, Yohji had worked himself into a proper fit and was swearing quietly under his breath. But as suddenly as it had come, the anger left, dispersed instantly by an incidental glance at Aya. He stopped.

When he halted in his quick retreat, he turned to pull Aya against his chest, wrapping the shaking boy in a hug. Aya's head was pressed against his shoulder, and Yohji could feel the rapid, wavering inhale exhale of warm breath. He hugged the boy tighter, arms wrapped firmly around his shoulders, trying to reassure.

"It's okay," he soothed. He wanted to say something about the girls' true intentions, but it probably hadn't even been them Aya was thinking of. There was a deeper fear, fueled by the reaching hands and his own anger. He needed to know if Aya was alright, but he didn't want to move.

And it was working.

As he waited, his cheek rested against soft strands of red, and he wondered if the hug had been a bad idea despite Aya's responding to it. He was committed now. Yohji kept him there until his breathing settled and he was still.

Gently, he relaxed his arms and moved them to Aya's shoulders, carefully pushing the other away, just a little, to check. It was only then that Yohji sensed the two hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, clutching at his sides, feeling simultaneously the bereavement of Aya's warmth against him. As the boy's head lifted off his shoulder, Aya's eyes, strange shadowed amethyst, met Yohji's own.

He wanted…

He leaned in without thinking. Only the sudden widening of those odd eyes saved him from the kiss. Swallowing hard, Yohji rested his forehead against Aya's. That, he reminded himself, would have definitely been a bad idea. Aya might have been warm and pliable and beautiful, but he was fragile and broken. Yohji forced his mind to summon images of the too-thin body, sounds of the pitiful crying in the night, anything to distract him from the suddenly attractive creature in front of him, a trap of his own making, still close, still clutching his shirt.

"Okay?" he asked quietly.

With Yohji's forehead against his, Aya was unable to nod, but he offered a small and forceless, "Yes."

Taking a deep breath, Yohji pulled him close again, letting Aya's head rest against his chest when it fell limply forward. He kept the hug loose and tried not to think of how perfectly Aya fit against him, small and delicate, so much like a woman. Another deep breath.

"Don't worry, they won't hurt you. I," he weighed his words, found them overdone, then said them anyway, "I'll protect you."

He would. Even from Yohji Kudou.

"I mean it. I won't let anyone hurt you, Aya."

There was the slightest of nods against his chest, and then they stood still together in the bright light of the kitchen.

~tbc~

Notes: Okay, finished! Just kidding, though after all the trouble these last two chapters were to write, I was half ready to hang it up right here. I haven't said this since chapter two, so perhaps it's appropriate to ask again: shall we go on, reader? I'm game if you are.


	38. Seize Me

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews, Dananoda, macDhai, ranma, Maria, lelann37, Since the Beginning, and blackorcid! I've been a little unsure the last week or so, but after all your kind comments I'm determined to continue on. Oh, and blackorcid, now there's no way I can resist letting Aya bitch slap Crawford, hehe.

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Seize Me

* * *

He had told himself not to do it. He demanded his breathing stay regular and forbade his body to run.

It had crossed him mind that it was some bizarre form of punishment, but his owner's face told a different story. Yohji had worn not the satisfied, anticipatory smirk so often seen on his Master, but a vague impression of fear. Then the hand had closed around his arm, hard enough to bruise, but not intending to hurt.

Aya had known they were customers. He understood that they were young and female and hardly a serious threat. When the first few arrived, the discomfort had been nearly a knee-jerk response to a crowd, a result of being unable to see the entire room clearly. His keeper could hide there, and he wouldn't be ready for the impending punishment.

If they had stayed at that distance, Aya might have made it okay. He might not have thoroughly embarrassed himself by freaking out over a bunch of young girls.

But when he had been surrounded, trapped, the first memories had leapt forward. He fought valiantly, simultaneously trying to process the barrage of questions that had been ten times worse than the simple, yes, no things Yohji had aimed at him earlier. It was uncomfortable, and he had thought of Schuldig's prying inquiries as the man touched him while his own hands were tied.

Then someone really touched him. It had been a light tug to the bottom of his shirt, the hand brushing almost inadvertently over the seat of his jeans. A hundred awful memories sprang from the touch, surging over his conscious awareness; it was suddenly Crawford's hand on his arm. Aya had found himself standing and had been desperate to kneel, to shield himself from the his Master, knowing the man would shove him down, barely letting him breath as he pushed roughly into his body.

He didn't remember leaving the shop, concerned only with hiding, and at the same time knowing he couldn't get away.

Then there had been his owner's, Yohji's voice. He hadn't heard the words, but the arms around him didn't push or demand or hurt. Yohji was warm and still, and Aya had had time to realize where he was.

He was safe.

Safe.

He held to the man, trying to keep himself in the present, dreading the irrational rush of the past that made his heart race with forced adrenaline.

Yohji was safe.

It only occurred to him to move when his owner tried to shift him away; his mind felt drowsy, overwhelmed and trying to escape into oblivion as it made the rapid shift from terror to ascertained safety. Yohji was trying to see his face, and when Aya looked up he caught something strange in the green eyes.

Was it—

Before the idea had half-formed, Yohji had moved.

He didn't grab, just rested his head against Aya's own. The sudden concern vanished from Aya's mind, too much at odds with the pressing evidence of his owner's protection. He was grateful when Yohji drew him close again, glad and unsure why or how it could be good to be so near.

"Don't worry, they won't hurt you. I…I'll protect you."

The embrace said he would. He had.

Safe.

Aya felt his hold on the world slipping, his focus drawn to the one word. Exhausted and weak, he rested against Yohji's chest feeling warm.

"I mean it. I won't let anyone hurt you, Aya."

Safe.

* * *

"Yohji, a little help here!" Ken's voice echoed through the house.

He had to move. Having gotten Aya close to him, finally giving up to instinct and pulling the boy into a hug for comfort, Yohji was more than a tad reluctant to let go. He was also afraid Aya might bolt. Though the boy was lax, almost asleep in his arms, there was a good chance he had seen it in Yohji's eyes, that momentary desire to …well, to something that wasn't going to do a damn bit of good.

It really wasn't a big deal. Aya just looked so drastically different that Yohji's brain just hadn't had time to realize he was the same person. And he was beautiful, strange and exotic, and when this was removed, for the spare moments that the illusion lasted, from the damaged Aya that shared his bed, Yohji had found himself swept up in the boy.

Desire had been subsumed, not instantly but quickly, with the need to protect and comfort and just hold. Despite everyone's opinion to the contrary, Yohji wasn't controlled by his libido, at least not twenty-four seven. True, it had been making a fuss, but it hadn't been just his dick responding to Aya.

He wasn't sure that was better or worse.

He was sure that he needed to go out and get laid. That would help. It always did.

But first, he had to let go of Aya, then he had to go and kill Ken.

Relaxing his arms, Yohji let them fall away, making sure he could stand before taking a step backwards. Aya looked worn out.

Yohji wanted to reach out and stroke that red hair, gently. Maybe if he just—

"Yohji!"

Damn it. He was seriously going to kill Ken, or at least drop a flower pot on his foot.

"I've got to go back in there." There was some tensing at that, a clear sign that Aya did not want to go back to the crowded shop and grabbing hands of the girls. "Why don't you go to our room and rest?"

Yes, Yohji. His mind supplied the phrase before it was spoken.

"Alright."

Not sure what to make of that, or of the last half hour in general, Yohji just nodded and, after stepping out of his way, watched Aya go up the steps.

* * *

The door shut quietly, and Aya walked into the bedroom without turning on the light. The room's single window faced west, and the afternoon sun slanted through the blinds to cast narrow bars across the bed and floor. Aya stood for a minute, breathing in the quiet, debating where he might lay down to take a nap. Yohji would want him to sleep on the bed, but—

Hands grabbed him suddenly, yanking him back against a solid body. An iron arm fell across his stomach, and fingers pressed against his mouth and nose, stifling his breath and any noise he might have made.

/Hello, kätzchen./

~tbc~

*the slug having been banned for insensitivity*

Notes: Hm, Schu's finally come to visit. Not exactly a pleasant social call, but please review and come back to see the results.


	39. Scare Me

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Scare Me

* * *

There was a momentary struggle, the small body shifting enticingly in his arms, but the moment he spoke Aya stilled. Schuldig pulled him tighter against his chest, burying his noise in red hair and breathing deeply.

/I missed you./

As Aya tried to breathe against his hand, Schuldig began to work his way into the boy's mind. He found more resistance than before, a consequence of his improved physical condition no doubt. When he'd first gotten his pet, it had been a trial to read him; it had confused him at the start, until he'd found out exactly why Mr. Takatori wanted Ran. He was more than a pretty thing.

Oh, but he was pretty.

Still, Schuldig didn't want to deal with the difficulty all over, so he made quick work of forcing his way inside, feeling the jerk of the body in his arms as pain raced through Aya's head.

/Sorry, but you know better./

It took him only a few minutes to sift through Aya's memories of the past week, and he found most of them to his liking. Yes, his kitten was being treated kindly for once, something Schuldig wanted despite Crawford's insistence against it. The confusion of his mind was just too delicious. More than once Schuldig wished Brad would just back off and let him have Aya; the boy should be his to play with. A fine balance was required. If he was completely broken, the entire process ceased to be any fun at all.

Now this was fun.

There was a sweet disappointment in the boy's mind.

Digging around in the day's events, he found surprisingly developed trust in the new owner. He didn't think that would happen so quickly, but it was still underlaid with insecurities. These were bolstered by Crawford's training. It had worked well, he supposed, because buried fairly deeply in Aya's mind were the ideas the precog had placed there: he was worthless, dirty, a dishonorable failure deserving only punishment. There was the constant dull throbbing of shame, a desperate wish to be rid of it, and the confusion of how to do so. And there, the hopelessness that undulated under everything, threatening to overtake him; it had a bitter feel that made Schuldig turn his nose up and move his mind away. That was always a strong presence, but now, other ideas flitted around it, those from Aya's past life closer to the surface than before. Schuldig doubted they were conscious yet; still, this was probably the danger Crawford was sensing.

While it would be interesting to see the boy make a pleasant life as the blonde's pampered pet, they really couldn't afford for him to embrace the defiance that had been so hard to restrain.

The solution was simple, and Schuldig almost smiled as he probed the boy's feelings towards his new Master. There, beneath the fading expectation of injury, was a tender insecurity of failure. That would do nicely.

/I'm going to uncover your mouth, but we must be quiet. Understand?/

There was a nod, and he released the boy all at once. Aya practically sprang from his arms.

That wouldn't do at all.

/I didn't say you could move!/

Using speed that would baffle the average man, he shot out a hand and snatched Aya's wrist, yanking him back. There was resistance, and as they stood facing in the still room, his hand bruisingly tight around the bony wrist, he saw a delectable fear in the boy's eyes. Another hard pull to the wrist brought Aya in close, sending him off balance, and Schuldig's other hand, drawn into a tight fist, landed solidly against his stomach.

Aya gasped. Releasing the wrist, Schuldig stepped in to catch him as he doubled over, maneuvering the boy into a tight hug that mimicked the one he had shared with his Master. Aya's arms were held at his sides by the German's left arm, and when the boy tried to lift his head, Schuldig's right hand fisted tightly in the back of his hair and forced it back onto his shoulder.

/I'm jealous, kätzchen. Don't you want to hug me?/

There was a little, breathless groan.

/Aw. I know you love me. That's why I'm here to help you./

He didn't have to search for the doubt that surged through the other's mind, laced with copious amounts of dread and a few bright sparks of fear the boy was doing his best o suppress. Always a fighter, this one.

"Kneel," he said out loud, and when Aya hesitated, Schuldig used the hold on his hair to force him down. Instead of releasing the red strands, he tugged the boy's head back and leaned over to brush his lips against Aya's. They were dry, slightly open with his labored breathing but didn't move when they met his own; he didn't stay long enough for Aya to snap at him, but was sure to run his wet tongue over the bottom lip before drawing away.

/You always taste so sweet./

He dropped Aya's head and it fell forward. Now that looked like the boy he knew, kneeling on the floor, head bowed in submission that never really reached his core.

/Pretty clothes. Your Master dress you in those?/

A nod.

/He spoils you. A pity you won't be here long./

Purple eyes snapped up at him, surprise going quick to anger when he laughed.

/Now, kätzchen –/

"Don't call me that."

So he was angry over not staying with the blonde. Interesting. They hadn't had a good game in a while.

/I'll call you whatever I want, kätzchen./

"And stay out of my head."

The threat was meager, slightly unsure. Even better, Aya's voice was still quiet. He had no idea, no notion that he might call for help, that anyone would come and save him.

How fun to touch him with the others so close.

Smiling, Schuldig crouched down in front of him so they were eye level. Reaching out, he began unbuttoning the blue over shirt, pushing it apart to further reveal the leather collar still firmly in place around Aya's pale neck. Unable to resist, he tugged the white undershirt out of the boy's jeans and slipped his hand underneath.

Aya's eyes closed, is lips pressed into a thin line. Schuldig leaned forward to kiss them again as he brushed his hand over the warm stomach, hover around the line of the pants.

"Don't get cocky," he warned.

Removing his had from beneath Aya's shirt, he let it trail up the boy's chest, tracing the collar with his finger before hooking it into the sliver ring and pulling so that Aya's face was close to his own.

"Listen to me, Ran. How long do you think this will last? Your owner does all this for you, pampers you, while you do nothing, _nothing_ for him. He fusses over you, and you don't so much as call him Master. He doesn't punish you when he could, believe me, and you know you deserve it. You don't give him your body; you don't give him _anything_."

He used his hold to shake the boy, watching long fingers clench into fists that would never lash out.

"You're useless. You make him angry. And soon Balinese will—"

"Balinese?" it was a whisper, not really directed at him, but Schuldig caught his mistake. Damn.

He didn't have a choice. Wrapping his fist around the collar, he shoved Aya backwards, knocking the back of his head into the corner of the bed post. Only Schuldig's hold kept him from falling to the floor, and he drug Aya back into his kneel.

/Listen!/

He could feel the pain in Aya's mind, sharp and throbbing; the name was forgotten.

"The minute your Master gets tired of you, when he ceases to be amused by this little game of 'helping' you, the second that happens, you come back home. And," he leaned close to speak into the boy's ear "you know how _pleased_ Crawford will be to see you.

"Almost as pleased as I am," he purred, feeling Aya shudder. Gently he kissed the boy's cool cheek, his jaw, and was about to nip at the neck when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Fuck," he growled. Remembering his instruction, he once again shoved Aya's head into the bed post. It hit hard, making a loud thunk and leaving violet eyes slightly unfocused.

As the boy went to fall, Schuldig grabbed the collar and drug Aya close, half hugging half restraining as he hissed in his ear, "Don't even think about telling him I was here, or I'll take you with me next time."

Then, as quickly as he had approached, he drew back to stand at the window, detached and unmoved, or at least appearing so to Aya. The steps were closer. He smiled.

"Hey, Aya," Yohji's voice called from the hall.

/Be good./

Blowing a kiss, he slipped out the open window and jumped to the street.

~tbc~

Notes: What's Yohji gonna do, and what damage has been done? Please review to comfort poor Aya!


	40. Salvage Me

Notes: For those of you interested in the mini-Weiss drama that is my rescued kitties, Chibi-kitty (real name Omi) is now wearing a collar and is no longer cowering in the cage, Aya-kitty continues to glare at me but deigns to be petted on occasion, and Yohji-kitty is an attention whore and is also very pregnant…I blame Aya-kitty…even though they're both girls…

* * *

Chapter Forty: Salvage Me

* * *

"Hey, Aya," Yohji called, trying to warn the other so he didn't startled him. He didn't really expect a reply.

He'd gone back to help with the rush, but between subtly trying to disembowel Ken with the pruning shears and accidentally spraying a certain gaggle of fangirls with the hose, his assistance hadn't been very well received. Finding him too concerned with what Aya might be doing (sitting on the floor, hiding in the corner, waiting to be punished) to even count change correctly, Omi sent him upstairs to check with orders not to bother coming back until it was time to close shop.

When he opened the door to find Aya kneeling on the floor beside the bed, Yohji knew his concerns were vindicated. About to give the boy a lecture, he noticed something strange. He didn't know if it was a particular slump of the shoulders, the detail that the shirt was undone, or the fact that the boy's head was bent towards the floor with grim determination, but his instincts went suddenly into hyperdrive, leaving him to sort out the warning signal pulsing through his brain.

"Aya? You okay?" he asked as he crouched beside him. Aya didn't flinch when Yohji reached for his chin, but the older man could feel the tremor of his body. "Did something happen?"

When Yohji tilted his chin up to get a look at his face, he found Aya's eyes closed, drawn, like the other was in pain. Was that it? Was that what was wrong? There was a pull at his mind that said it was something else, but that was a place to start.

"Does something hurt?"

He released Aya's chin when the head shook no.

"Don't lie to me. Does something hurt?"

"Yes, Mast—Yohji."

Damn. They hadn't had a slip all day. That aggravated him almost as much as Aya lying to him. Excusing it as the boy's not feeling well and not able to think too clearly, Yohji focused in on the immediate problem. He'd learned to do that, Aya always being such a bundle of problems that one had to do triage on all occasions.

"Aya, tell me what hurts."

"Head." It was a quiet admission, and Aya tensed like he would be hurt for saying it.

"Okay, good. Hold a second, I'll be right back." He stood as he spoke, but stopped his walk to the door when Aya called out to him unexpectedly.

"Yohji—"

There was something that looked like fear in the purple eyes that turned on him, and Yohji tried to be as gentle as he could when he spoke.

"What is it?"

Aya seemed to fight for the words, "You…you'll come back?"

The fact that Aya actually wanted him to be there, wanted to be helped, was a victory in Yohji's book.

"Yeah, two seconds. Promise."

Aya sat still and watched as Yohji left the room.

Determined to make good on his promise, Yohji executed the trip to the kitchen medicine cabinet at a quick walk. Though not as impressive as the medkit contents, their collection of regular medications was extensive. Weiss was obviously not a leave-it-to-nature kind of household.

Thinking the boy had a headache, possibly a migraine by the intensity of it (probably brought on by stress), Yohji shuffled things around until he found some of Omi's tension headache stuff and dumped three of the red pills out into his hand. The bottle said they ought to be taken with food, but feeding Aya was a task in itself.

Yohji's smile widened at the sudden mental imaged of feeding Aya like a pet, but he shoved it aside. His brain was really on an inappropriate kick; it needed some time away along with his body. Maybe he would go out after all, but only in Aya was okay. The thought of leaving the boy when he didn't feel good was ridiculous.

Dismissing the idea of food, he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and headed back upstairs.

Aya was as he'd left him, and his eyes flicked quickly from door to floor when Yohji entered. Settling on the floor beside him, Yohji held out the hand with the pills.

"Here, take these."

Aya seemed unsure, reaching hesitantly to take them in his own hand. He held them while Yohji opened the water and handed it over as well.

"They'll help," Yohji assured, trying not to say something stupid like 'put them in your mouth.'

Aya put the capsules in his mouth one at a time, taking small sips of the water and getting them down without incident. He seemed unsure what to do with the water, so Yohji took it from him, capped it, and set it aside.

"Here," he reached for the blue shirt, "let's take this off so you can rest better."

He took it without protest, sliding the fabric off the thin arm and leaving Aya in his white t-shirt. The collar was suddenly obvious, and Yohji wished he could remove it as easily. Instead, he moved around Aya to the bed, taking a seat on the edge.

"Come here," he patted the spot beside him. Aya was slow to move, and it took considerable restraint for Yohji not to reach down and pull him up. When he was finally on the bed, on the very corner and a good two feet from Yohji's side, the blonde patted his own leg, "Lay down."

Okay, that obviously confused him, maybe even scared him a little. About to reach out and drag the other's head down, Yohji thanked every god he could think of that he thought better of it before doing something so stupid. No telling what tasks Aya would associate with such an action. He had to be careful.

"Lay down, Aya. Here," he patted his leg again, making sure to indicate a safe place close to his knee and far away from any danger zone.

The redhead did so; it was a hesitant, awkward process of folding his legs up under him before lowering himself onto his elbow. Yohji finally put a hand on his shoulder to help, feeling how tense he was. Aya head finally ended up on his thigh, the boy laying on his side, facing away from Yohji, arms curled tightly to his chest which rose and fell too quickly. He was stiff and anxious.

"Relax," Yohji tried to sooth. God, he wanted to touch Aya, to rub his back, his arm, to run his fingers through his hair and try to calm him. That had been a temptation from the beginning, constantly thwarted by Aya and Omi and even his own better judgment. Now, though, he couldn't help it, or, rather, he didn't want to. He'd been good today, despite his wandering mind, and this small expression might help deflate any more inappropriate ideas.

Carefully, slowly, he picked up a few stands of red hair, feeling them between his fingers. Gently, he began to run his fingers through Aya's hair, starting near the crown and brushing down through the eartial that lay against the pale cheek. It was too red to be real, brighter for being clean, and so soft and fine. It ghosted over his fingers, filling a craving that he could no longer push back.

For a long time, he just enjoyed it.

He almost jumped when Aya spoke.

"Yohji?"

"Yes?" He had to smile. The day hadn't been a loss since after all the awkward pauses and waiting, Aya was learning to address him of his own accord.

"I…you…"

"It's okay," he resumed stroking the hair, "Take your time."

Aya swallowed hard.

"You've done so…so much for me…I…what can I do for you, Yohji? What do you want?"

The words were quiet, but there was a metallic thread of desperation that ran through them.

"I don't want anything, Aya."

"There has to be…something. Please. I'll do…whatever you want."

The words sent a chill down Yohji's spine, and he felt the sensation echoed as Aya trembled. He had no doubt the offer was made in true faith, and the power offered to him was frightening. But he kept his hand running through Aya's hair and tried to answer calmly.

"This is all I want, Aya."

"This?"

"Yes. I want to sit here with you and touch your hair. Is that okay?"

There was a long pause, then, "Yes."

Yohji's frown melted into a smile as he felt Aya relax next to him. A few minutes later a very hesitant hand shifted to lay on his leg, fingers just resting on his knee.

Something still ate at Yohji's mind, something he ought to notice or do, but as Aya's breath settled into regular rhythm of sleep, he tried to put it out of his head.

~tbc~

Notes: Yohji gets to pet Aya, though it's not all happy…if you'd like to pet the Aya, please use the review button below.


	41. Settle Me

Notes: I promise I haven't given this up! Life just thought to have a little fun with me by turning everything upside down, but, since reality refuses to be nice, I've decided just to ignore it completely. I just hope I haven't lost all you kind and patient readers with my delay. Sorry!

* * *

Chapter Forty-One: Settle Me

* * *

She was rather plain, with her freckles and her dark hair drawn into a ponytail at her neck. Schuldig looked away from the window as she approached his table, carrying the white cup and small, dessert-laden plate. He scanned her thoughts with no particular intent, was, being slightly disappointed that her primary concern for him was the he was foreign and a little creepy, made a quick alteration that her smiling suggestively at him.

"Thank you."

She seemed a little confused as she moved to serve the next customers.

Pouring creamer into his coffee, Schuldig watched the white liquid swirl and cloud the clear black.

It had been simple, almost ridiculously so. He had worked from the ally below, carefully tucked away from the noisy crowd of girls in the front of the shop—though he had thought, more than once, how fun it would be to walk in one day and order Chrysanthemums for Bradley. Not today, though. He had stayed in the shadows, no proximity necessary for the easy tweaks to Balinese's racing thoughts.

With a bit of misdirection, a slight intensification of the already heavy desire to comfort (not the only desire, he found with a mix of delight and jealousy), and the renown observational skills of the blonde kitten were useless. He didn't see the bruises Schuldig had inadvertently left, and no matter how many time he ran his hands through Aya's hair (something he seemed rather obsessed with, and something Schuldig wished he had paid more attention to as it seemed to calm the boy, something he could have exploited), he didn't feel the tender bumps. So simple.

Of course, his broken kitten was even better. His powers had no use there, the boy being as paranoid as he was. Still, he had indulged in a second invasion of that mind, getting only glimpses without the intense confrontation of before, and it seemed that his mission was a success. Aya was leery, thoroughly warned about keeping his place, full of dread about Crawford showing up at his door; interesting enough, he seemed to think Balinese had saved him.

Schuldig frowned, taking a sip of the coffee and finding it slightly bitter. Despite his injuries (Aya considered them minor), he saw the blonde as something of a liberating force, meaning that to Aya Schuldig had been chased away by Balinese's presence. It irked him, that the kitten thought he could be so easily beaten.

How stupid.

No, he corrected. His kätzchen wasn't stupid; he was confused. Poor little thing.

That brought back the smile. When all was said and done, the kätzchen would be his. No one had said so, but Bradley would have no use for him once Takatori and Esset were satisfied. If the boy survived…yes, that would be fun.

Lifting his fork, Schuldig took a bite of the chocolate cake. It was deep and rich and tasted like anticipation.

* * *

"Manx is coming tomorrow," Omi said softly, almost apologetically. The regret, however, was not so much for the imminent arrival as his inadvertent waking of Aya. What had apparently been a rather peaceful nap had been rather harshly interrupted; he hadn't done anything except touch Aya's arm, but the disgruntled look Yohji was giving him suggested he ought to have known better.

Thankfully, after a few minutes of coaxing, the wide-eyed boy had taken the supper Omi had brought him and let Yohji tuck the warm comforter around his legs. He had been shaking.

Hoping to put him at ease, Omi had quickly adjourned to the hall; Yohji had followed, shoving his hair out of his face with one hand and working a cigarette out of the pack with the other.

"Tomorrow?" Yohji asked around the unlit cigarette.

Omi nodded.

"Damn."

"Yohji-kun, have you…told him?"

It was clear he hadn't.

* * *

Yohji watched as Omi tried to persuade Aya into drinking the suspiciously pink liquid he had poured into a juice glass. Supposedly, it was Ensure, some kind of vitamin and calories rich drink that old people had once they lost all their teeth and, Yohji thought, will to taste. Omi was positive it would help Aya, but having tasted it himself (his mind unsure why he was consuming a chalk-flavored milkshake), Yohji had his doubts. Still, he smiled encouragingly when Aya looked in his direction.

The boy drank it, clearly trying to repress the urge to gag.

Omi grinned, promising to get the chocolate kind next time.

Aya nodded, and Yohji watched him obediently finish most of the glass. He looked tired, even with the nap and a night's sleep, the latter being broken by more unaware bouts of crying than they had faced in a week and one full-fledged nightmare. Yohji wondered at it, but marked it off as a part of recovery. And the boy did look better. Just as the day before, he had let the blonde select his outfit, asking only for something with long sleeves. Yohji had easily obliged, handing over the black, zip-up sweater that fit his trim form nicely along with a pair of gray jeans that were just a little too big. He looked nice, and when he looked up to catch Yohji's stare, even better.

~tbc~

Review to give the Aya something better to eat.


	42. Seclude Me

Notes: Thank you Dananoda and icantseeyourstar for your reviews of the last chapter; they really motivated me to hurry with this one!

* * *

Chapter Forty-Two: Seclude Me

* * *

Everything seemed to be going smoothly. Ken was shifting the heavy plants towards the door, Aya was sweeping quietly, and even Yohji was lending a hand as he took on the demanding chore of putting change into the register. That was, until Ichiro Matsura decided to phone twenty minutes before they opened to inform them that he needed not twenty-five but forty-five centerpieces for the afternoon wedding; he didn't know what had gotten into him when he placed the order. Cursing wedding planners, brides who insisted on peach roses, and the entire institution of marriage, Ken and Yohji started a desperate count of the flowers to see if they had enough to even attempt to accommodate the stressed Matsura's sudden alteration.

Yohji completely forgot to watch the clock.

Later Yohji promised to berate himself for being such a fuck up, but the second he came out of the back room, arms full of peach roses, all he could think of was getting Aya out.

It was Saturday, and once the sign had been flipped to open, they had been instantly inundated. News had spread quickly, and the fangirls were more than a little eager to get a glimpse of the newest florist. There was a renewed flurry of questions, reaching hands, flash of cameras.

"What's your name?"

"Did you just move here?"

"Do you go to high school? Which one?"

"What year are you?"

"Are your ears really pierced?"

"Do you have a favorite food?"

"Forget the food, Na-chan! Do you have a girlfriend?"

There was a general moan of disappointment at the thought; Aya had not even come close to providing an answer, preoccupied by backing up against the display case, broom loose in his hand.

Shit.

"Yohji-kun!" Omi called, trying to make his way through the tight ring of girls.

"Aya!" Yohji all but shouted from across the room. He wanted to rush over, and hurried to find a place to drop his burden, managing to bump into Ken in his rush.

"Yohji," Ken grumbled, trying to disentangle the blooms he was holding from those Yohji brought. "Pay attention."

He was, just not to Ken.

About to toss the roses onto the floor, their wedding order was saved at the last second as Omi (having apologetically elbowed a particularly big girl) got to Aya. He took the broom from what Yohji knew were trembling fingers and, turning, the boy shielded the redhead from the crowd.

"Ah, Aya-kun, there you are. Yohji-kun said we need to sort out the greenhouse! Come on!"

There was a louder sigh of disappointment from the girls, and, having piled the roses in Ken's arms, Yohji swept in.

"Now, girls, surely you aren't that disappointed with Kudou's world class service? You're going to break my heart."

As predicted, they rushed to assure the blonde that he was still deeply wanted, at least until they realized Omi had Aya by the hand as he was trying to guide him in the direction of the greenhouse. Yohji felt a sudden surge of emotion at Aya's being touched: fear that the boy would be frightened, worry that he would cause a scene, and, a little unexpectedly, jealousy that he let Omi take him away.

But Yohji knew why Omi had that hand; he knew upset, Aya would be unlikely to follow under his own volition.

The girls, however, didn't see it that way.

Maeko, a short girl with a round face and bobbed hair, was the acknowledged president of Omi's fan club; she was quick to step towards the departing boys, stilling them instantly with her loud, shocked words.

"Omi-san! No!"

This set off a new wave of recognition and questioning.

"Look, they're holding hands!"

"Omi-san, are you dating?"

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Can we see you kiss?"

"On the cheek, on the cheek!"

"Too cute!"

"Is it true? Are you together?"

The respect Yohji had for Omi doubled as, shrugging off every insinuation that he was not only gay but openly dating another boy, he simply turned, tightened his grip on Aya's hand, and led him out of the room.

Of course, Yohji was left to deal with the questions. And there were a damn lot of questions.

* * *

Having assured the girls that Omi was (as far as they were concerned, at least) completely of the heterosexual persuasion and having distracted them with a rather ingenious diversion (not that Ken liked getting sprayed with the hose, but he had to take one for the team), Yohji had just managed to get free to go check on his charge when Omi came through the back door of the shop. Aya wasn't with him. About to hurry past the blonde in order to verify the redhead's whereabouts, Yohji found his sleeve expertly snagged, bringing him up short in front of a none too happy Omi.

"He's fine," the other assured him quietly, as if Yohji wouldn't bother to ask. He was obviously miffed over the latest screw up.

"Yeah, thanks," Yohji said seriously. Starting off again, he halted when Omi refused to relinquish his shirt.

"Listen," he was offered a serious look, "Leave him alone for a while. He needs the space."

"Space? But—"

"No buts. Leave him alone."

"But—"

"Yohji-kun! Give him an hour, okay? Just an hour to himself. It'll be good for him."

"I don't think it…will it?" After all, the chibi had been right about a lot of things. Yohji was learning to listen; it might save him a hell of a lot of regret.

"Yes. Besides," he released his captured cloth and smoothed it politely, "I think he'll like it in there."

* * *

Aya stood near the door of the small greenhouse, feeling a little lost since Omi had left him alone with no instructions. It had taken a few minutes to calm himself, his mind full of memories set off by those girls.

Soon, too soon, he had to focus on the immediate situation and a sudden, frightening surety that Schuldig would come for him now that he was alone. He wanted to go to Yohji where he might be safe, but he knew better than to leave a place he was obviously meant to stay. His presence in the shop would only cause his owner more difficulty. Violet eyes darted from one corner to the other, searching, thankful that the building wasn't large, its entirety illuminated and visible; the fact that there was nowhere to hide helped to calm his nerves. Consciously, Aya relaxed his fists, but his hands still tugged at one another as he surveyed the space.

The walls were covered with green canvas; it sagged in places, revealing dusty green glass. The floor was constructed of simple wooden planks that separated here and there over the packed dirt beneath. To his right was some kind of workstation, with a waist-high surface, shelves, and drawers. Two long wooden tables, sturdy-looking ones, sat longways to occupy the majority of the rectangular enclosure; they held a variety of items, but Aya could only see three flowerpots, and only one of these had anything growing inside. There were no trees or bushes, only a vast collection of disused tools, some of which he didn't think had ever been put to use in the shop. He studied these from a distance for just a moment before turning his attention upward to the gentle slope of the roof; like the walls, it was constructed from squares of thick green glass, like an old soft drink bottle, only more transparent. It let in a wash of warm sunlight, and taking a hesitant step forward, Aya slipped out of the shadows and into its brightness, breathing deeply as if to take the warmth inside himself.

~tbc~

Notes: Oh my, readers, the Hentai Slug is getting awfully excited about all those tables, you best review to shoo him away before he derails the plot for greenhouse fun! (Remember, anticipation is half the fun…)


	43. Seek Me

Chapter Forty-Three: Seek Me

* * *

His wet jeans were clinging to his legs in a very uncomfortable manner, and the stares of the fangirls were not helping. Had they limited themselves to looking, he might not be quite as frustrated, but Ken had been exposed to too much gratuitous touching in the last hour to be a happy camper. Plus, Yohji wouldn't let him go change until they finished the damn wedding order.

Ken wasn't good at arranging flowers on a normal basis, and under that kind of pressure he was even worse. But with Omi trying to make small orders for the customers, he had little choice but fall in and try to help Yohji complete the stupid roses. Had he actually been helping the blonde, this might not have been so bad. However, Yohji wasn't helping himself! Sitting next to Ken at the work table, he held a loose bundle of flowers half-heartedly, eyes glued to the clock on the far wall.

He had told Yohji three times to get his mind out of the clouds (the third repetition being phrased more along the lines of getting his head out of his ass), but the warnings just didn't seem to take. Not that they ever did with him. The man was an expert when it came to slacking, but Ken wasn't about to do twenty arrangements on his own.

"Work," he grumbled, prodding the limp arm hanging closest to him.

The look Yohji gave him was clearly unmoved. A small ray of hope was glimpsed as he shuffled the roses in hand and added a spring of baby's breath to the mix, but two minutes later Ken found him watching the clock again, yet to complete a centerpiece. He was seriously going to hit Yohji.

* * *

"Smoke break," Yohji declared as the big hand finally reached the two.

Rubbing his arm where Ken had inexplicably punched him (and what the hell was his problem anyway?), Yohji abandoned the work table and started for the back door. The shop was still packed, and Omi was shooting him a rather desperate look, not to mention the glare he was getting from a slightly damp Ken. Tough.

"Ten minutes," he promised, deciding to ignore the doubtful reception of his word.

As he slipped through the back room of the shop and into the back yard, Yohji did actually light up. Eager to get to Aya, he took a hard drag at the cigarette as he leaned briefly against the back of the shop.

It made him nervous to be away from the boy for too long, and the fact that it did made him more nervous. He wasn't exactly sure what he thought would happen if he didn't stick next to Aya; after all, the boy had spent several days upstairs while he was in the shop. Maybe Omi's attitude was justified. But it just made him damn uncomfortable to have Aya dropped in a place he wasn't familiar with and given who knows what (if any) directions from Omi; the boy was probably just sitting there on the floor watching the dust float by.

And if anything happened to him—

Yohji shook his head at his own irony. Crushing his half-finished smoke under the heel of his shoe, he thought about what he had to say to Aya. He didn't have long, and after that was done, having him waiting alone in a greenhouse might look like a fucking godsend.

He didn't want to do it, to say it and bring the thing he had done into reality.

They had been making so much progress, too. Now Yohji wasn't sure how Aya would react. He had tried to construct the scenario in his head, ending up with more than one depressing possibility. What would he do if Aya was suddenly afraid of him, shunned the meager touches he had allowed, refused the bargain and slipped away in the middle of the night? It had only been a week, and Yohji was by no means confident that Aya was as attached to him as he was to the redhead.

He didn't believe in praying anymore, but just before he opened the greenhouse door, Yohji still sent a silent request to whatever part of the universe would listen that it went better than he expected.

The door squeaked on its hinges, the green canvas crinkling as it shifted over the glass panes it protected while concealing the inner working of the greenhouse. The door swung inward. Stepping into the warm, dry building, Yohji found himself first surprised by the lack of humidity. It was wrong, somehow, to come into such a structure and not be assaulted by the heavy air and immediate smell of growing things. It was another sign of their neglect, so prominent in the nearly abandoned building.

From this his mind was whisked away by Aya who appeared to be thriving in his neglect.

Standing at the edge of one of the work tables, he was looking almost fondly at a small clay pot as he rested his dirt-dusted hands on its edge. When the door swung loudly closed behind Yohji, his head rose, not with a sudden snap, but a surprisingly fluid motion, and while there was a clear expression of concern on his face, his shoulders seemed surprisingly relaxed.

"Is it okay?"

"Huh?" Yohji responded, stepping closer when Aya made a small gesture towards the pots. He noticed the tension creep into the thin frame as he moved in beside the redhead and stared at the containers; while one was still growing what Yohji could only assume were weeds, two had fresh dirt, obviously having been utilized to plant something.

Aya was shrinking away from him slightly, tucking his hands more closely against his sides, looking towards the floor, losing the bit of calm Yohji had felt only seconds before. Immediately concerned, it took him a second to realize his own silence initiated the change.

"Hey, it's fine. It's great. What'd you plant?"

Aya made an almost imperceptible motion towards an open packet of seeds: snowdrops. Yohji fingered the battered packet, left over from one of their half-hearted attempts to utilize the space.

"Cool. This place needs something growing in it."

Aya said nothing, head bowed.

"You could do that, if you want."

Slightly frustrated with being unable to see Aya's face, Yohji moved. Slipping between the boy and the table, he sighed a little when Aya winced and took a step back at the sudden shift. Choosing to ignore it, Yohji continued to take a seat on the table to the right of the pots and directly in front of Aya. Now, if he ducked his head just a little, yes, he could see Aya's eyes.

Eventually his silent, awkwardly bent requests got Aya to raise his head (at least mostly) and look at him.

"So, would you like that? You could work in the shop when the girls aren't there—at least for a while—then come out here and get this place in order. You could plant some stuff. Anything, really. Omi's got a catalog of seeds; we can order whatever ones you want. How's that sound?"

The look was hesitant, but Yohji thought Aya seemed hopeful.

"Really?" he asked quietly, the insecurity pulling hard at something in the blonde's chest.

"Yeah," he breathed, able to recover himself only after he looked away from purple eyes, "This place needs all the help it can get, and it's gotta be better than being mauled by the girls every day. They're not so bad; you're just too pretty for their self-control."

"What?"

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry."

How had they got back to that?

"Aya, look at me for a second," he kept his voice calm.

Unable to resist, Yohji used a single finger to gently lift Aya's chin, connecting against with his eyes; they looked confused and wary.

"There's a woman coming here this afternoon," he started, already tired, "Her name is Manx."

~tbc~

Notes: Next chapter gets a little more into the action, promise! Thanks for reading, and especially for reviewing!


	44. Suffer Me

Notes: Well, this would have been posted sooner, but I belatedly decided to add the flashback in the middle. It's a bit long, so hopefully it will hold everyone over until I get the next bit finished. Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone! Whenever I see new reviews, it makes me want to go and finish another chapter for you all. Oh, and we have actual plot action this time!

Chapter Warnings: mention of non-con (nothing too graphic), minor blood

* * *

Chapter Forty-Four: Suffer Me

* * *

"I know it sounds bad, but you have to think—damn, no, you don't have to do anything. Just," he paused, trying to gather his thoughts that tangled like an unruly can of worms, "Kritiker might be able to help you. They've got a lot of contacts; they might be able to get your sister.

"Aya? Aya?"

It was silent for the first time in what seemed like hours. Yohji had rushed through it, moving from Aya's briefly acknowledged recollection of his rescue to the admittance of the blonde's real profession. He didn't lie, but he set it out quickly: the shop as a cover, Ken and Omi's participation, where the orders came from. And then he'd made the leap and told Aya why he should do it, why he should become a killer.

He felt like shit.

Aya was staring at the freshly planted flowerpot with a blank look in his eyes.

"Aya?"

He hopped off the table, stood close to the boy, hand hovering uncertainly over a thin shoulder for a second before being buried in his own hair.

"I'm sorry. I am. I wouldn't drag you into this but, fuck, it's the only option. You've been here, with us. You saw me kill that guy. If I hadn't brought you here, you'd be dead, and if you don't – damn, I don't know. I'm sorry, Aya. Talk to me, please."

Aya swallowed hard. His eyes drifted closed then reopened: cold.

"Aya?"

"Okay."

"What?"

"Yes."

"You'll do it?"

"Yes, Yohji."

* * *

"_He won't eat," Farfarello whined. Crouched behind the silver dog bowl, he looked plaintively at Crawford._

_Kneeling nearby, Aya stared down at his hands. They were bound in front of him, and he could see the scraped knuckles, still bleeding a little from where he had resisted while they had been trapped against the wall over his head. They stung, but it was a minor complaint compared to the stinging ache of his inner passages, freshly abused by Crawford. He was bleeding there, too, more than he thought was good as he felt the warm liquid drip down onto his heels. It hadn't been so much since the first time, and he wondered if Crawford noticed. After dressing, the man had shoved him out the door and ordered Farfarello to feed him._

_He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of eating. Besides, he felt sick. _

"_I want to sleep," he said._

_Crawford kicked him, his black loafer digging in hard just above Aya's kidneys. Aya fell forward, hands just quick enough to keep his head off the wooden floor of the dining room. Crawford wouldn't let him sit on the rug, not when he was bleeding._

"_Get up," the man ordered, yanking on the back of the collar and forcing Aya to right himself. _

"_Bad kitty," Farfarello scolded, smiling as he ran his fingers along the edge of the food bowl. The touch of the silver echoed the press of Crawford's fingers on Aya's collar. _

"_Try again," Crawford instructed him, "I think he'll be more cooperative."_

"_Come on," the Irishman hissed as he slid the bowl closer, "eat."_

_Aya looked at the bowl. It was filled with some kind of stringy meat along with a plain piece of bread. He felt his body react, but his stomach wasn't sure whether it wanted to devour what was in front of him or throw up what was already in it. _

_He turned his head aside._

_There was pain as Crawford caught the back of his hair, twisting his hand in the long strands and yanking Aya's head backwards, forcing him to look up at an uncomfortable angle. _

"_Will you eat?"_

_When he didn't answer, Crawford pulled his head farther back, making it hard to swallow let alone talk._

"_Will you eat?" he asked again. There was no expression on his face, but Aya saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. His reply didn't matter, and Crawford only wanted the satisfaction of hearing him recite the approved response as a token of submission._

_He couldn't answer even if he chose to. When he tried to give in, to fall back in the direction of Crawford's grasp, the dark haired man prevented it, gave him another kick, and forced his head further back. It was getting hard to breathe, and Aya had a moment of triumph when he thought he would pass out without giving in._

_But Crawford was too smart. _

_He let Aya lean forward but kept his hold on the boy's hair. Kneeling behind him, he leant close to his ear. _

"_Eat, or are you hoping for another lesson? I know you like it, Ran," he whispered as his free hand ran dry and smooth over Aya's side, lower, to his too-thin waist where it squeezed, hard, over the bruises already there. "But you really must keep your energy up."_

_Aya made some sound of protest, and Crawford's right hand tightened in his hair, the left sinking lower, fingertips slipping between his naked thighs. _

"_Ask him again."_

"_Want some food?" Farfarello grinned, shuffling even closer with the bowl. He shifted to Aya's side, and the boy could feel his breath on his shoulder as cool fingertips ran over his foot, sweeping through the blood there and smearing it over his exposed bottom, tracing a pattern on the madman could decipher._

"_Answer. Will you eat?" Crawford demanded, ignoring Farfarello's play._

_The hands moved again._

"_Yes," he conceded, tired and sick and hurt, "yes."_

_Crawford's nails scratched deep across his thigh._

"_Yes, master."

* * *

_

Aya stood still for a long time after Yohji left him. He thought of nothing for a long as he could, falling finally into memories of forced decisions. He fought them back, trying to focus on the warm light of the greenhouse; it made him tired. He clutched hard at the edge of the table, but it was a losing battle, and when Yohji wasn't quick to return, Aya gave it up and sank to the floor.

He saw it now, what Yohji wanted him to do. Of course it wasn't as simple as working in the bright shop or warm greenhouse; of course it wasn't just being close to the blonde. He had been stupid to think it could be so easy.

Aya had never killed anyone before.

His head hurt, and he leaned it against the leg of the table, trying to steady his thoughts as much as alleviate the discomfort.

He knew that he didn't have a choice in the matter. Yohji had said as much; join this Kritiker or die. He would have gladly taken the second option if not for Aya-chan. There was a fleeting spike of irrational joy at the thought of declining, of taking the sudden end at the hands of some dark organization beyond his control. But then Aya-chan's face was there, peaceful in more than sleep, the way he always imagined it.

And Yohji said there was a chance that they would find her.

Aya tried not to dwell on it, but the shred of hope was the first he had had in many months; it was, however, overshadowed by the cold surety that he would have to join them…Weiss…and kill.

He thought of Yohji and the relief that had washed over his face when he had agreed. His owner wanted him to do it; he wanted to think that the blonde wouldn't punish him should he say no, but the vivid image of Yohji pulling the wire tight around Kaimo's neck, the twitch of the man's dying body. If Kritiker governed Yohji, then it was possible that he might be ordered to get rid of Aya if he chose not to cooperate.

There was no choice. Even if Yohji wouldn't punish him, he had no doubts that Schuldig would.

Yohji hadn't noticed or didn't care about the bruises on his wrists, and Aya thought he was glad of it. But while his owner's presence chased away the other, it was clear that he was not impervious to attack. Schuldig would come back, and should he find Aya to have disappointed Yohji by not taking up this post as an …assassin, then he would take him back. Perhaps it was what Schuldig had meant, the thing he had to do for his owner.

To kill or to go back to Crawford. He felt it was selfish in the worst possible way, but Aya knew he would rather take a life than go back. To stay with Yohji, to have even this flimsy guard against Schuldig, to avoid Crawford's painful lessons, and to cling to the fragile hope of finding his sister, he would do it.

He would do it.

* * *

"Look her in the eyes, Aya. Don't back down."

* * *

Omi waited in the basement with Ken and Manx. He wanted nothing more than to sink down into one of the comfortable chairs, but it just didn't seem right.

It had been a long day, and the orders had barely gotten done. Yohji had been on edge, and even when he tried to help it was with half-attention that produced nothing near his usual quality of work. Some of it had to be redone, and there was no way Ken could take off two hours to watch his game; this had made Ken angry, and Omi had to work to not only pacify the brunette but make up for Yohji's inattention and fend off the barrage of questions from the fangirls who seemed dead set on the idea of his dating Aya. This did nothing to improve anyone's mood.

When they had put down the shutters, he had hoped for a half hour of reprieve just to be by himself. This was the thought that got him through counting the till, and he hung up his apron with actual hope; two minutes later, Manx arrived. She was stiff and formal and clearly aggravated at all of them. Yohji had been briskly ordered to go get "him" and meet her in the basement. Ken and Omi were given little choice and trailed along behind her to wait.

She stood cool and professional by the television, seemingly a little put off by their request and Persia's acquiescence. Her entire attitude read a desire to expedite some useless process.

"What is Kudou thinking?" Manx aimed at Omi.

He didn't have an answer for that, and his attempt at a smile only seemed to frustrate her.

"Hell if we know," Ken answered for him. Omi didn't think it was quite right to distance themselves from the issue and lay it solely at Yohji's feet, but it was tempting in the face of Manx's aggravation.

Then Yohji was coming down the stairs with Aya, and once Omi glimpsed the boy's thin face, he felt a wave of guilt for even thinking it. He wanted Aya to stay, partially because he was learning to think of him as one of their own and, more so perhaps, because he knew what would happen if he left. He took only a single step back as Yohji approached.

The blonde's smile was fake and a little dangerous.

"Manx, this is Aya," he stepped to the side so she could see the boy behind him, "Aya, Manx."

Aya nodded, eyes surprisingly trained on hers.

"Aya?" Manx questioned, rather quiet; her anger seemed to shift to surprise, and Omi wondered if it was on account of Aya's fragility. He looked good after Yohji's changes, but not exactly strong enough to be Weiss material. Manx studied him, then sat down the papers she had been holding. Her brows drew together and she took a step towards the boy, examining his face. "Who are you?"

"Aya," he returned, gaze flicking briefly to Yohji but coming back to hers.

"Aya who?"

Omi realized he didn't know the answer. Had no one thought to ask?

Aya was slow to answer, "Fujimiya."

"I thought…" Her voice was quiet, trailing off. Reaching out a hand, she took hold of his chin. Omi watched Aya tense, but he didn't move. Gently, Manx tilted his head to the side. After a long moment, she nodded, let him go, and stepped back. Yohji was quick to go to Aya's side, not touching him, just hovering close as he looked him over like Manx might have broken something with her curiosity.

"You want to join Kritiker? Join Weiss?"

"Yes," Aya replied softly but without hesitation. It hung in the air

"Manx?" Omi finally asked.

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a camera and snapped a picture, leaving Aya blinking against the flash.

"Persia will consider his addition to the team."

Just like that? It was quick, Omi thought, feeling something was off with the process.

"Not in this condition. You'll need to make him a fit candidate," she ordered blandly, looking now to Yohji. "We need to know he can handle himself, think quickly. Weiss is too valuable to screw up because of one of your whims, Balinese. He'll have to be good. And he needs to demonstrate his ability with a weapon."

"Right."

"A month."

"What? You're fucking kidding me!"

Omi really hoped Yohji decided to back out of Manx's face before she changed her mind.

"That's unreasonable! I can't do it in a month. Three, Manx," then, mellowing suddenly to present her with obviously false contriteness, "please?"

"Six weeks, Balinese. We can't afford more."

"Manx," Omi started to step in, but she interrupted him.

"Bombay, you're dismissed. Take Siberian and," another stare in his direction, "_Aya_, with you. Balinese, you stay. We need to talk."

~tbc~

Notes: Review to tell Manx to play nice...or to comfort poor Aya...yes, I know, one seems like lots more fun than the other, but we really must be fair.


	45. Slight Me

Notes: Thank you Darita, Dananoda, Jamin, icantseeyourstar, Joybug, and blackorcid! Your reviews mean the world to me, and seeing responses keeps me writing this. Thank you!

* * *

Chapter Forty-Five: Slight Me

* * *

Yohji would like to say he listened calmly to Manx's lecture on safety, security, and generally fucking around with Kritiker business.

Obviously, he hadn't. To his credit, he had managed to stay seated throughout, but by the end he was jonesing for a smoke and indulging in the nervous habit of bouncing his knee. The minute she dismissed him, he slipped out the door and into the back yard, pulling out his cigarettes as he went. It was only when it took three flicks of his silver lighter that he realized his hands were shaking.

"Shit," he swore, his lips wrapped around the cigarette that wasn't calming him as much as he hoped it would.

He had dug himself in deep. The worst of it was, he had drug Aya and the team with him. Kritiker was pissed, and while Yohji liked to think he didn't give a good god damn what they thought of him, having a world class organization after your head was not something you wanted. And if Manx's attitude was any indication, Yohji was on the list of watched personnel.

Until Aya completed the evaluation, Weiss was considered compromised. Excluded from intel. Out of the computer system. Off missions. Courtesy of Yohji Kudou. He hoped he could pitch it to the guys as a six week vacation, but since it wasn't paid time off, he doubted they would be very receptive.

Six weeks. But he didn't regret pressing for the extra two. Hell no. It would be hard enough to hone Aya into some kind of shape.

And he had to. Manx had made it perfectly clear what would happen if Aya didn't pass the test. As Yohji had suspected, if he showed some promise but "failed to be mission-ready," he would be taken in for training. This could mean two things; Aya might be trained (usually a quick and brutal process that made a person able to do their job and defend themselves) or he might be eliminated.

Yohji hadn't saved him to have the boy tortured by the psychos that served as training agents, and he sure as hell wasn't going to let Kritiker kill him off. If that was the outcome, then—

Yohji cut off the thought. Going rogue wasn't an option.

But six weeks.

He lit another cigarette.

Damn Manx and her fucking schedules. It was all bullshit.

* * *

They sat in the living room; the television was off and no one was saying anything. It made him nervous.

Omi was curled up on one end of the couch, alternating between watching the basement door and watching Aya. The redhead was, as per Omi's instruction, sitting on the other end of the sofa. He sat with strict posture, his bowed head alone breaking the straight line of his spine. His hands rested on his knees, one rising every few minutes to tug on one of the long pieces of hair near his face.

Ken didn't like to spend too long looking at him. While the painful thinness and unkempt neglect wasn't prominent anymore, there were still lingering signs that made Aya seem not right in their living room. And though he knew he probably shouldn't, he couldn't help be a little angry at the kid for disrupting their lives. They had enough to deal with.

The basement door clanged, and Manx shot them an evaluative glance before walking out.

They waited for Yohji. Ken noticed Omi was chewing his bottom lip, probably feeling just as nervous as he was. Something was off, really off, with the whole situation. With a glance at Aya, Ken saw him pull harder on his hair.

"Don't, Aya-kun," Omi said quietly, like he was talking to someone on the television who couldn't really hear him. He reached his hand out, but didn't move close enough to touch the other. Aya nodded without looking and placed his hands resolutely on his knees.

They listened, waiting. A strange thought struck Ken. What if Manx had killed Yohji? Who knew what she carried in that bag; he had seen a gun there once, and it wasn't like she didn't know how. Or maybe she has sent him away, some kind of punishment for disobeying security protocols. There could be a note down there right now, while they all sat up there, waiting for him when he wouldn't come. It was dumb, he knew, but it was a hard fight not to jump up and check, just in case, or at least call out.

Ken made a deal with himself; he would sit patiently for ten more minutes, then if Yohji didn't show, he was going to check.

Eight minutes passed before Yohji came up the stairs. His hair was down, and he had his sunglasses pushed all the way up over his eyes. He seemed surprised to see them all there. He walked past, once, then came back with his short navy trench loose around him and a lit cigarette in his mouth. Braced stiffly in the doorway, he took a couple drags off the smoke then held it in his hand as he talked.

"Kritker's pissed. No missions for six week, until we're no long 'compromised,'" he said the word with disgust, half laughing over it. "I'm going out."

"Yohji-kun, what—"

"Tomorrow, kid. I'll deal with it tomorrow," he waved away the concern, shoving the cigarette back into his mouth.

"But, Aya-kun…"

"Watch him, will you?"

He didn't wait for an answer before he turned from the doorway. Ken heard the jingle of his keys and the soft closure of the back door.

He didn't want to look, but something made him. For the first time since they got upstairs, Aya's head was up. His eyes were glued on the place where Yohji had been, and he looked almost scared. Ken suddenly felt sorry for him, just then, left behind like a little brother too young to play with the big kids. He wanted to invite Aya somewhere, to include him, but he couldn't think of anything safe to say.

"I'm going downstairs to watch the game."

He left. Just like Yohji.

At least he felt bad about it.

~tbc~

Notes: I've been a little stuck on this, but the next chapter is in the works. The more reviews, the faster it gets done…I don't make the rules, that's just how it is. *nods sagely and tries not to look suspicious*


	46. Scorn Me

Notes: My apologies for the brief hiatus! I wish I had a fun tale of a sudden romantic fling or pursuit by the police, but, alas, I can only report an attempt to die by bronchitis and an inability to do more writing than the freelance stuff that pays my bills. I want to thank everyone for the reviews! I really appreciate the people who read this, and especially the ones who take time to leave a comment or two, so thank you Jia Ming, ee, CaT70, KyuuketsuikiNekko (you got review number 200, yay! you win a lemon cookie), Dananoda, and blackorcid. I've never had this many reviews, ever, so I'm determined to make it worth your while!

* * *

Chapter Forty-Six: Scorn Me

* * *

Aya stood still in the middle of the silent room.

The sun was bright, giving off an orange flare of light before it began to set. This was mostly hidden behind the heavy shades, letting in only enough light to create deeper shadows within the gloom of the unlit space.

Schuldig might be hiding—no, he would forget that. If he was there, then…

He tried not to think as he settled onto the floor, kneeling carefully to the right of the bed so that he might, in a little while maybe, rest his head against the edge of the soft mattress. There had been a fleeting reservation of sitting there, a tiny mental urging to take his place on the bed instead, to be where Yohji liked him when the man returned home.

But Yohji was angry.

Aya took a deep breath as he stared at the worn rug beneath his knees. He couldn't figure out precisely how, but the meeting with the woman—Manx—hadn't gone well. Though not denied entrance into the profession that he did not want, there had been a particular look in her eyes that he didn't like.

Not that it mattered what Aya liked or wanted or needed.

What mattered was that Yohji was upset; Aya hadn't missed the steel glint in his eyes, the tense, closed stance he assumed as they left the basement. He had seen it before.

Despite his attempts to please the man, Aya's presence had brought nothing but trouble, with his friends, his customers, and now this woman and the organization that backed her. A difficulty, that was what Aya was, and, as Schuldig had pointed out, Yohji gained nothing for his troubles. Why would Yohji continue to put up with him?

He wouldn't. It was simple, then, wasn't it? Yohji had left; he was done. Schuldig would come and get him and take Aya back. He wondered if somehow Yohji knew this, planned it.

He certainly hadn't planned to become attached to his owner, a person who could, and most likely would, hurt him, but when Yohji hadn't done that, when he had been insistently kind, it was difficult. He felt different around the man, a feeling verging on comfort, something he hadn't felt since his family was gone. It was—he hesitated over the word but decided it was true—it was safe with Yohji.

But he was still a slave, despite the blonde's objection. And that meant he could be set aside, told to stay, and left in an empty room like before. The emptiness echoed with his memories, bringing forth long hours where he had laid, half-conscious, listening for Farfarello's footsteps, knowing the abuse was imminent and being able to nothing except wait. What was coming for him was only the pain that always followed silence.

He couldn't do anything, and he hated it.

Aya tugged at the collar for the first time in a long time, taking a firm hold at the front and pulling hard. He wasn't sure what he meant by the action, but it was all of a sudden strangling him; still, his fingers wouldn't go to the buckle.

Where would Schuldig come from? The window, maybe. Or was he already there, hiding in the afternoon shadows?

What if Yohji didn't come home in time? What if he did and let Aya go?

It didn't matter, Aya reiterated to himself. But it was a lie.

It had been too good, the reprieve from physical pain and exhaustion. His body was starting to recover, to demand attention and care. Even now his stomach grumbled softly, spoiled by the regular intake of food. And as the physicalities of just surviving were lessened, some part of his spirit had decided to return; it easily regained strength once it stopped living in constant desperation not to be extinguished altogether, and he tried hard to suppress the urge to run away, to be done with it.

There was Aya-chan. Always.

He thought about his sister for a long time, a rather stoic expression on his face as he lost himself in pleasant memories: Aya-chan burning their mother's birthday cake and begging him to make one, her first sleepover when she had ordered him angrily to stay in his room only bring him his favorite chips and hour later, her begging him for a pair of golden earrings.

They were sweet memories, but they fled too soon, leaving bitter remains. There was no more kitchen, no more mother, no more Aya-chan as she was. He hadn't seen her since the explosion, but he could all too easily conjure images of her injured, lying in some crisp hospital bed, alone. She needed him.

Something creaked. Aya's head jerked up, and he scanned the room. He couldn't see it.

He tried to press down the threatening panic.

It was just a room, better than others he had been in. Odd, that a place that had become a kind of safe habitat could seem so cold, so dangerous, so quickly.

The sun was finishing its display of light, leaving only gray-purple to creep through the blinds and cast shadows in the diffuse gloom. In the last lights, he could see the place where Schuldig had stood, and it didn't take much effort to imagine him there again. The bed, too, where the red haired man had pushed him down, threatened him, ran his hands over his skin.

He didn't want to be there. Not alone.

~tbc~

Notes: Aya is feeling lonely, review to tell Yohji to hurry back!


	47. Supervise Me

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews and for the get well wishes; they gave me so many warm-fuzzies that a few slipped into the fic (keep an eye out for them next chapter).

* * *

Chapter Forty-Seven: Supervise Me

* * *

"My life sucks."

This was the insightful comment Yohji offered the cab driver as he flopped into the back seat. The bearded man nodded, dark eyes flicking to the rearview mirror only once; Yohji guessed he was used to the ramblings of his more intoxicated passengers if he worked that area if town at that time of night. It was three thirty in the morning, and mundane comments like that were unlikely to get his attention; he asked Yohji for an address.

The bartender had been much more sympathetic; of course, Yohji had still been flirting with sober, and his discourse had been a much more meaningful tirade against the injustices that befell him when he was, for fuck's sake, a decent human being.

Two hours and eight thousand yen later, he had admitted to the bartender that he wasn't a decent human being, but he was trying, damnit. And what did he get for his troubles? Shit. That's what.

The bartender, a thirty-something with dark hair and heavy eyebrows, had nodded, setting down another rum and coke. Yohji usually drank expensive vodka, but he needed time and large glasses to occupy his attention. He had still been nursing it when he saw the chick with the red hair. It wasn't as bright as Manx's, and she wasn't as tall or thin, but she had nice tits and, at that moment, screwing someone who looked like the woman making him suffer seemed like a fine bit of revenge.

They had danced, and he had slipped his hands under her sequined top, fingertips edging under her bra. She giggled, he smiled, and thirty minutes later he was sitting on the cheap mattress of her dorm room bed. Yohji had brushed back her hair, not liking the feel of the clinging hairspray nor the revealed dark roots. But she was giggling again, squeezing him a little before she went down on him. She hadn't been a pro, but he had leaned back on his elbows and tried to say encouraging things.

Then he had pressed her back on the bed, pushing her short white skirt up around her hips and running his hand down one soft flank as she laughed and told him to go on and do it. So he had. She had gasped and clutched the sheets, but somewhere in the middle of it Yohji had caught a flash of her red hair and realized it was wrong, not because it was dull, but because it was long. Suddenly it was Aya beneath him, thin and tight and warm, gasping his name and begging him, harder, yes.

He had come before he could get rid of the image, shocked at the suddenness of it as he rolled off the girl and tried to breathe. It had been more than the cheap fuck that made him feel dirty as he tied off the condom and tossed it into the wire wastebasket by the bed. The girl smiled and reached for him, but he couldn't lie down with her, not with his stomach churning and his head trying to get a jump on the morning's hangover. He had made some excuse, she said it wasn't fair, and he returned that life wasn't fucking fair. She had told him to get the hell out.

Now he sat propped against the door of the cab, feeling the dried sweat on his body and tasting the remnants of too much rum. It wasn't supposed to go like that, not for him. He was supposed to come home feeling too damn accomplished to care that he didn't smell good and that he had stained his newest shirt.

"Hey, buddy. This it?"

Yohji looked up to see the darkened storefront of the Koneko.

"Yeah."

He dug out several bills as he leaned against the cab, paid the driver, then headed inside. When he didn't have any trouble with the back steps or the door, Yohji realized he wasn't nearly as drunk as he ought to have been or wanted to be. Shit. And he knew he had to go upstairs. And Aya would be there, in his bed.

He didn't want to fuck Aya. It was the last thing the kid, right, kid, needed. He hadn't been out in a week, and Aya had been on his mind. That was all. The thing with the girl had been a fluke, just another way life was trying to mess with his mind, one more problem for Yohji Kudou because he could never have enough of them.

Still silently bitching to himself, he made the weary climb up the steps, using the rail to drag his body upwards when it wanted to sit down and have a rest on the carpet. Maybe he could catch a few hours of sleep before work, where he'd have to take Aya. Then they had to deal with whatever training was going to be. The kid probably couldn't even fight, let alone handle anything more complicated than a kitchen knife. It would be awkward and strange and probably painful, and Yohji just didn't want to do it. He shouldn't have to. He shouldn't have to fucking kill people, and he sure as hell shouldn't be teaching someone else how to do it!

Yohji realized two things suddenly: Aya was sitting in the dark hall, and he had hit the wall hard enough to make the boy jump and look at him.

Reaching for the light, he flipped the switch. For a few minutes the blonde just stood there, leaning sloppily against the wall and looking at Aya over his sunglasses. He was sitting on the floor just outside the door of Yohji's room, legs drawn up in front of him and arms around them. He looked tired, unsure, and almost scared, but any expression faded under a sudden chill of blank resignation that fell over his features. Ducking his head, he waited.

Though he had cultivated and stoked it all evening, Yohji felt his anger still, hot indignation turning cool as he stumbled over the reality of the situation. Aya. Beaten, drugged, raped, sold, thrown into something completely different and lined out to become an assassin at a little past sixteen. If anyone's life was unfair, it was his. Yohji had burnt his own bridges, but Aya had never gotten the chance to.

"Hey," he finally said, having to clear his throat to get it out. Aya didn't move when he stepped towards him, but he flinched just a little from the hand Yohji reached to smooth his hair. "You're awake."

"Yes, Yohji," he said without looking up.

Though his voice lacked inflection, Yohji couldn't help but feel a kind of heaviness about him; it was in the way he sat, hunched over himself, head almost resting on his knees, and in the set response. There was no sense of anticipation, but some kind of certainty of something impending.

Tired with himself and the situation, Yohji wanted to go to bed. He wanted to walk past without another word, slip between his sheets, and pretend the whole thing wasn't happening. But he couldn't.

He had left Aya in what he thought were the best hands, but here he was by himself. He wondered where Omi had gone and how soon, whether he had even tried. There was a flare of anger at that, but it turned inward quickly. Yohji realized he hadn't exactly given it much thought when he was leaving, while he was out. What had Aya been doing? Sitting here thinking, probably, alone with the idea that he was joining Weiss and a load of uncertainty about what that meant. Not exactly comforting. Had he been so desperate for company that he had come out in the hall?

Shifting his shades onto his head, Yohji ran a hand over his face. Turning, he leaned his back against the wall and slid slowly down to sit beside Aya. There were only a few inches between them. Thinking to make a try at comfort and apology by taking Aya's hand, Yohji reached for it, his finger ghosting along one pale forearm as he moved and, unexpectedly, coming away a little slick.

"What?" he asked, watching Aya pull further in against himself, trying to hide his arm with his hand. But it wasn't any good. On his knees now, Yohji got ahold of the boy's arm; Aya didn't resist beyond one small sound as the blonde drew the thin limb towards him, stretching it out to see what had left the blood on his hand. For a terrifying second, he thought Aya had slit his wrist, but it wasn't that serious. Still, Yohji hissed at what he found. The day before there had been, he knew, a few thin, scabbed over places where Omi had tended Aya, but now the underside of the redhead's forearm, several inches below his wrist, was pink and raw, repeatedly scratched by short nails until they dug deep enough to draw blood. It was smeared over pale skin, some of it drying, some still dripping towards the soaked cuff of Aya's pushed-up sleeve.

"What the hell?"

"I'm sorry," Aya said quietly, head bowed.

"Why did you do this?"

Aya just shook his head.

"Look at me," Yohji demanded, glad to see purple eyes rise to his own. He tried to temper his anger, keeping his voice level as he coaxed Aya into talking to him, "Why did you scratch yourself?"

"I," it was a whisper; the eyes fled, came back, "didn't mean to."

"What do you mean? Aya, talk to me."

He waited.

"When I get…nervous, it just happens."

Considering the sick look about him, a kind of waxy exhaustion ,Yohji thought 'nervous' was an understatement, but he let that go, "Why were you nervous?"

Aya just looked at him, but again he waited it out. Finally, "Because he might come back."

"He? Who? The guy who sold you?"

Now Aya looked away, closing his eyes.

"I'm not going to let anyone hurt you, Aya."

Yohji waited for his words to have an effect, but there was nothing.

~tbc~

Angst again, I know. Review to shoo away the angst and get the boys back in order.


	48. Support Me

Notes: A short chapter this time. All your kind reviews have motivated me to get back to more regular postings, so I'll try hard to put out the next chapter soon!

* * *

Chapter Forty-Eight: Support Me

* * *

_But you weren't here. You left me._

Aya didn't say the words, but Yohji heard them well enough. They ran through his mind as he tested the wound with tentative touches.

"I don't want you doing this shit. What do I have to do, watch you twenty-four seven? I know my company's great, but geez, Aya."

He smiled, trying to break through the tension and at the same time pretty sure it was a lost cause. Aya didn't look up, just sat resting his chin on his chest, eyes closed like he might sleep now that Yohji was back.

Releasing the boy's arm, Yohji was glad when it was drawn back towards its owner's chest. At least he was still conscious. Shuffling to his feet, Yohji paused to toss his coat into the bedroom before heading to the bathroom.

There he once again dug the med kit out from under the sink, setting it on the floor by his feet as he paused to wash his face and get it together. He set his shades on the vanity and ran both hands under the faucet before brushing them through his hair and over his face. That didn't quite do it. His chin was rough with stubble, his hair greasy, his shirt stained; there were circles under his eyes, and if he had had a bit more energy he would have gladly brushed his teeth. Instead, he stuck his whole head under the faucet, soaking himself with the cold water. As he straightened, it ran off his hair, darkening the shoulder of his expensive top and slicking dark blonde waves to the sides of his face. He grabbed the hand towel to get the worst of it.

Wet, but feeling slightly more in the world, he picked up the kit and went back to Aya.

What the hell was he going to do with him?

Something, Yohji decided as he knelt again by the boy. Despite his best efforts, the kid was a mess. Obviously, Yohji thought as he again arrested the injured arm, he couldn't take care of himself. He couldn't be left alone for long, at least when he didn't have something to occupy him. It really was like having a kitten; you couldn't very well leave it in a dark, empty room and expect it not to long for attention or tear something up. And Aya was a stray Yohji had brought home, his own pitiful, abused, seriously high maintenance project.

Just clipping his claws had obviously not been enough.

Shaking his head, Yohji applied a good bit of antibacterial ointment and wrapped a cotton bandage around Aya's arm.

"If you keep this up, we're going to have to restock. You use more of these things than Ken."

His second go at levity met with the same lack of reaction as the first, so, closing the kit, he set it against the wall and stood again. Then he reached a hand down to help Aya up. His last attempt at peace had been derailed, and he hoped the simple offering wouldn't be disregarded.

"Aya?"

It took a second, but finally tired violet eyes rose to look not at his face but at his outstretched hand. Yohji was sure he made quite the picture, worn and ragged around the edge, too rough to be prince charming. But maybe Aya didn't mind. Lifting his bandaged arm, he place his cool hand into Yohji's and let the blonde help him to his feet. He staggered a little, the stress of the long day pushing him towards passing out where he stood.

It was too late to bother with pajamas or turning back the covers, and Yohji simply shuffled them both into the bed. When Aya tried to curl up on the edge, he was coaxed back; there wasn't much protest, and Yohji moved him like a rag doll, feeling how light he was even as dead weight. He ended up with his head resting on Yohji's shoulder and his arm laid carefully across the man's chest. Too tired to fight against it, Yohji let himself be led by instinct, and so he fell asleep gently petting Aya's hair.

~tbc~

Notes: Aww, the warm-fuzzies! Think they'll stick around 'til morning?


	49. Teach Me

Chapter Forty-Nine: Teach Me

* * *

Yohji went to sleep knowing he had the morning shift, but Omi's knock still felt awfully early. He roused enough to mumble an answer, knowing that if he didn't get up the blonde would be back and wouldn't hesitate to come in and assure himself that Yohji was moving. For the moment, he gave only a warning and continued down the hall.

Blinking against the dim light of early morning, Yohji went to adjust his position and became aware of a warm weight against his chest. Looking down, he saw the shock of red hair and realized Aya was still laying half on top of him. The boy had shifted a little during the night and now held loosely around Yohji's waist while his head rested in the middle of the older man's chest, rising and falling gently with each of his breaths.

Aya hadn't moved after Omi's call, and Yohji was fairly sure he was still sleeping. As far as he knew, there hadn't been any nightmares during the morning hours, a first, but hardly a precedent considering the brief time they had slept. Carefully, he brushed back some of the boy's hair, fingers lingering briefly over Aya's neck to check his pulse. It seemed normal. He was just tired, Yohji supposed; he hadn't looked well last night, and three hours sleep just wasn't enough to bring him back.

If the choice had been his, Yohji would have gone back to sleep, glad to let Aya rest on him. But Omi was waiting, and if he came back in, both of them were probably going to the shop. It would be better for Aya to rest and be ready for what they had to accomplish later.

Bracing his left elbow against the mattress, Yohji wrapped his right arm securely around Aya and rolled them over so that the boy was laying back on the mattress. The arms around his waist tightened momentarily when he went to pull away, but they let go instantly when Aya's eyes opened.

"Sorry," Yohji whispered, "Didn't mean to wake you up."

He had expected a yawn, maybe a sleepy closing of eyes; what he had not counted on was the absolute panic written across Aya's face.

* * *

"_Get back here," Crawford ordered, voice stern but cold. His strong hand clamped down on Aya's upper arm, yanking him back to fall across the man's chest. Again he struggled, trying to press himself up with trembling arms fighting the firm hold around his waist. Crawford just smiled, holding him tighter, pressing their naked bodies together in the center of the large bed._

_Aya wanted to fight harder. He wanted to scream, to hit, to flee, but he was always so tired after Crawford's lessons__.__ He just wanted to go, to the floor, the corner, anywhere that wasn't near the man who hurt him. But when exhaustion won over, he sagged against Crawford's chest, breathing hard, feeling the soreness creep over his limbs, through his insides, and feeling, too, the growing hardness pressed against his stomach. _

_Crawford laughed, a deep, quiet sound. The hardness shifted against his inner thigh as he was tugged up to lay on top of the older man._

"_Feel that? I like it when you fight."_

_He didn't want to be the cause of that. What could he do, when even his struggles led to this? Was he so dirty, so wrong, that even his no was an encouragement? He lay limply when the arm around his waist tightened, letting Crawford roll him over like an empty sack of bones. The man's body was hot and heavy over his own, and the hand that ran through his hair came back to pull it, hard, forcing his head back so that he looked up at the other looming over him._

"_Mine, Ran," Crawford spoke slowly and forcefully, punctuating his words with hard thrusts against Aya's hip and tender parts, "Mine to have. Mine to punish. Mine to fuck."_

_

* * *

_

"Aya! Aya, calm down god damnit!" Yohji yelled, catching Aya's wrists when the hands came out again to shove at him. Yohji wasn't afraid of the boy hurting him as much as hurting himself in this almost wild panic. "Aya!"

"Don't," Aya pleaded, "please."

"What?" Yohji asked in return, then, with a sudden, sickening surety, he got it. When he had shifted them over, he had ended up on top of Aya, thinking nothing of it. Now, though, he realized he was resting most of his weight on the boy, leaning close with a single elbow planted on the bed for leverage, one thigh inadvertently placed between Aya's own. With his wrists caught in Yohji's right hand, Aya still pressed against the blonde's chest, trying to scoot backwards and unable to move.

"Oh, no. No, Aya," Yohji tried to explain, realizing it would be easier if he got the fuck off him. So he did, moving as carefully as possible, getting to his knees and letting go of the slender wrists he'd held captive. Slowly he backed away, kneeling near the far corner of the bed, letting Aya see that he didn't want that. "It's okay. I wasn't—I was trying to let you sleep."

There wasn't any recognition in those eyes as Aya sat up and scrambled back against the headboard. His breath came in short gasps through open lips.

Yohji didn't think Aya knew it was him; he had woken suddenly, not quite there. He sat still, hoping Aya would get it together on his own and worried that any advance on his part would make things worse.

After almost a minute, Aya closed his eyes, breath settling into something closer to normal. But just when Yohji thought it was all getting better, Aya made a quiet sound of distress that might have been Yohji's name, but it was lost as he ducked his head and drew closer to the head of the bed to curl around himself; when his hand came up to scrape across the new bandage of his left wrist, Yohji moved.

Instantly, he was at Aya's side, arresting his right hand and holding it between both his own. Violet eyes snapped up.

"We're not going to do that," he informed their owner. "Remember?"

The eyes widened, fled, and Aya struggled to find his voice. Finally he managed, "I'm sorry."

"My fault," Yohji admitted, gently stroking the back of the thin hand. "I didn't think."

They waited a few minutes in silence. Aya's eyes closed and his shoulders began to slowly relax; Yohji felt his own heart settling back into its normal rhythm. Scaring the hell out of someone was a rough way to wake up, and, truth be told, he much preferred the annoyance of the alarm clock.

* * *

The world was coming to an end: Yohji Kudou was up at eight o'clock in the morning, and he was happy. The reason for this hadn't struck the blonde until after the fact, but once it had, he had been hard-pressed to keep himself from smiling.

Aya had told him no. Not only had he resisted (albeit not completely intentionally) what her perceived to be a sexual advance, but he had also declined Yohji's offer to remain in their room.

While it might not have been the breakthrough of the year, it was a hell of a thing to accomplish in under two weeks.

Yohji was comforted by the fact that the boy _would_ tell him no, that he would try to protect himself, and that, to some degree, was learning to express his opinion.

Of course, when Ken asked, Yohji told him he was smiling because he had caught the last customer checking out his ass. The soccer player was not amused.

* * *

During the quiet morning shift, Aya worked in the shop, going from one task to the other as per Yohji's directions. He was still nervous as at the completion of each one he approached the blonde for another, but it seemed to get better as the day wore on and Yohji praised the little things he accomplished.

Around eleven, Yohji thought he was getting tired and again offered the option of going upstairs for a nap.

"Should I?" Aya questioned, head down and hands catching the edge of his black sweater.

"Only if you want to. Do you want to?" Yohji returned, surprising himself with his patience. It was easier when he could see Aya making progress.

Aya shook his head, no. He hadn't managed to vocalize it yet, but it was good.

"Okay. Let's try this then." Motioning Aya over, they once again took a seat at the worktable. "Ken, bring me some of the roses."

"Do I look like your maid?" Ken grumped, going to get the flowers just the same. He sat half a dozen of them in front of Yohji and stayed to watch, sitting on the edge of the table furthest from Aya who regarded him with wary eyes.

Yohji pulled some green wrapping papers from the counter behind them, took from the table drawer his clippers, wire, and various other odds and ends, then sent Ken on another errand for baby's breath and fern leaves. Aya watched attentively.

"Okay," Yohji started, feeling a little strange teaching arranging with a two-person audience that wasn't concerned with how fabulous he looked while doing it. Still, Ken could probably learn just as much, if not more, than Aya, so he resolved himself to the impossible task and handed each of them a rose.

~tbc~

Notes: A little longer chapter this time, and next time I think there might be actual plot…maybe…


	50. Try Me

Fifty chapters! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed on any of the sites where this is posted. You were all so kind. Your comments kept me going with this story and forced me to formulate an actual plot (gasp). I just want to take a few seconds to thank you all: Junshin, Kato-chan, Darita, Maria, Jia Ming, ee, Jamin, FanboyBenjamin, CurasiTayo, ranma, Gespera (our resident translator; that's right, we're torturing Aya in two languages now), chinchan, Kyaa, meow (if that is your real name, hehe), anonymous (the mysterious), sidhechaos, !2AN, Dove, phoenix682, Amyeyl, allia, kat716, Kryptonite, Madisuzy, ShadowCat13, Yuuzai, and pinbot.

Many of you in that list are multiple-chapter reviewers, a category which includes (but is not limited to) the illustrious Midnattssol, lelann37, Sky Rat, Kate the Night, SDegenerate, Since the Beginning, amet, Kite, CaT70, icantseeyourstar, and Kyuuketsuki_Nekko.

And a special thanks to those who have taken time to review almost every chapter all the way through: you guys are the best, Joybug, Dananoda, Dragon Lover, and macDhai. Finally, and as always, a very special, I'm-eternally-in-your-debt, I'll-loan-you-nekkid-pretty-boys kind of thanks to blackorcid and Cody-san; you all have no idea how much I look forward to reviews, and you guys never let me down!

So far, we've got two confirmed readers who have never seen the series, and one who went out and bought it (victory! though now you'll see I have my own, uh, special interpretation…oh well…). Whether you reviewed once or tons of times, it meant a lot to me; I read them all (usually more than once). Thank you all!

* * *

Chapter Fifty: Try Me

* * *

Yohji held two green-wrapped bouquets out at arm's length, poking them in Omi's face as soon as he crossed the threshold. The boy nodded, unfazed, and, circling Yohji and going behind the counter, slid his heavy backpack from his shoulders and shoved it underneath. Leaning on the opposite side, Yohji silently insisted on his attention by poking and prodding the flowers in his hand.

The fangirls would be arriving any second, and he really didn't have time to praise Yohji on his arranging skills. Actually, they needed to talk. They might have time, if Yohji would stop shoving those things at him.

"Yes, Yohji-kun, very nice," he conceded, trying to push them aside.

Yohji laid them on the counter and pointed, "Look."

Omi looked, quickly. They were fairly standard, two half-dozen bouquets of pink roses. The one on the right seemed to have a certain advantage, the paper being neatly tucked rather than crumpled and the petals appearing less tousled, and there was some aesthetic superiority as well, but Omi didn't have time to contemplate the artistic merit of it. A particularly ardent girl had nearly chased him out of the school, and while his bike had given him a good head start, he doubted it would serve him very long. And he really needed to talk to Yohji.

"That one's better," he pointed, "Yohji-kun, I—"

"Exactly! Ken made this one," he indicated the left as he nudged it out of the way, an improvement, actually, on the florist's usual work. Ken tried, and it wasn't, Omi thought, very nice of Yohji to make an identical sample to point out the other's shortcomings.

"Yohji—" he tried again, only to have a hand lifted in his face. He was really getting tired of that.

"Aya made this one."

"Aya?"

Yohji nodded, serious for barely a second before a smile lit his face. "It's good."

It was; Omi had mistaken it for Yohji's own.

"So I figure—"

Whatever the blonde had figured on was interrupted by the boisterous arrival of the first of the girls. Mika was at the head of the herd, and Omi soon found his arm arrested in her strong grip.

"Ne, Omi-kun, which flower do I remind you of?"

"Uh, that is…"

* * *

After the rush was over and the store closing, Yohji went out to the greenhouse to fetch Aya. Again he was amazed at the relaxed posture he found, and not a little impressed by the progress the boy was making. One of the long tables had been cleaned off, its jumble of clutter sorted into other parts of the room and replaced by various planting tools that Aya must have located around the place. There were a few trays, still empty, a green watering can, several seed packets, and the three flower pots from before. Obviously having been at work, Aya was trying to dust off his black sweater.

At Yohji's approach, he stiffened, but he didn't look at the ground for too long.

"Looks good," Yohji commented, idly testing the soil in one of the pots. It was rather dry but aerated well. "There's a hose here somewhere, and," he looked around, trying to remember, "I know there's a spigot. Somewhere."

Aya nodded, displaying a wideness of eyes that Yohji was learning to read as restrained eagerness.

Stepping to the table, Yohji picked up the seed packets. They were all ragged-looking, half-empty, and obviously old.

"I bet we can do better than this," he commented, placing them back, "C'mon. Let's go see if Omi can dig up one of those catalogs."

With a hesitant nod, Aya followed him back into the shop, pausing when Yohji did to watch the blonde reset the alarm on the greenhouse. It wasn't something they used often, but he felt better having it on when Aya was out there alone; he was careful, though, to go through the process of setting it slowly so Aya could see, just in case he had forgotten the earlier lesson. The last thing Yohji wanted him to think was that he was being locked in, or out, of what was fast becoming his sanctuary.

Opening the back door of the shop, Yohji gestured Aya to proceed him into the storage room. The boy did, but hesitated just over the threshold, waiting until Yohji stepped forward to once again take the lead. It would take time, he supposed, to get Aya to walk in front of him. Making their way through the cluttered storage area, they entered the shop to find Ken sweeping the floor and Omi counting the register Leaning on the counter near the latter, Yohji waited until he finished to ask his question.

"Can you find us one of those Kitazawa catalogs? The ones with the seeds?"

"Seeds?" Omi questioned, brows drawing together as he considered the oddity of the request

"Yeah, seeds, little things, you put 'em in the ground and they grow pretty flowers."

"Yohji-kun," he complained, rolling his eyes as he zipped the day's takings into the heavy deposit bag. Setting it aside, he bent down to shuffle some things under the counter and came back up with a thin magazine. "Here."

"Here," Yohji repeated, taking the catalog from Omi only to hand it to Aya who had been lingering silently behind him. The boy took it hesitantly, holding it like some fragile piece of glass. "Look through there and pick out what you want."

Aya nodded and followed Yohji's silent direction to take it over to the work table. With too much care, he set the catalog on the table, spread it open, and stood over it rather than taking a seat. Yohji just shook his head, figuring it was best to pick his battles. Omi looked on, and Yohji obliged what he assumed was curiosity.

"Aya's gonna grow stuff in the greenhouse."

Omi nodded, whether in an OK or simple dismissal, Yohji wasn't sure.

"I need to talk to you," he said. There was unexpected seriousness in the tone and Yohji anticipated the conversation not being a fun one. He was trying to look on the bright side, but the day really seemed to be out to get him.

"Sure. I gotta smoke anyhow."

"Let me put this away."

While Omi went to put the cash in the safe (not that anyone who broke into the Koneko would have a chance making it out with all their limbs, let alone the day's profits), Yohji wandered over to stand beside Aya who seemed totally engaged with his new acquisition.

* * *

Aya savored the familiar weight and give in his hand, hardly able to process what Yohji had given him. Part of his mind, a part working with ever-increasing attentiveness, noted that it was a little thing, something almost worthless to someone…someone who had not been in Aya's situation. He knew he had carelessly handled books, wooled them, piled them on his shelves to collect dust after only a single reading. Now, though, he touched even this with a certain reverence.

With care, he spread it open on the table, feeling the slick paper move under his fingers. His books had been different, but there was a small start he belatedly recognized as joy as his eyes ran over the text. It was silly, but he was relieved that he hadn't forgotten how to read. It didn't matter that it was an advertisement for modified blueberry plants; it was something.

Turning the page, he found segmented descriptions of flowers, each with a small color picture, common and scientific names, characteristics, colors, and at the bottom of each, a small note of the plant's meaning. In the lower left hand corner were the snowdrops he had been planting before, _Galanthus nivalis_, large while blossoms that meant, suitably, hope and consolation.

He was taken with it all and barely heard Yohji approach. It was only when the younger boy, Omi, came up beside him that Aya really began to pay attention. Unfortunately, he hadn't tuned in to events quite enough when Yohji asked him the question.

"Can you read, Aya?"

"Of course, I'm not stupid."

It only took a fraction of a second for Aya to realize what he'd said and to whom. Was he trying to get beaten? Instantly, he tried to apologize, simultaneously drawing his hands in close to protect himself.

"I'm sorry, Master," he bent his head, prevented from kneeling in front of the older man by a firm hand suddenly on his elbow. "I didn't mean to say it. I didn't mean to disrespect you. I'm sorry."

Aya felt his breath drawing in short gasps but was unable to stop it. He closed his eyes against the unpleasant sensation of struggle as he berated himself for his actions.

He was stupid. To say that. Aya knew Yohji would be angry, would hit him. And he had every right, to give Aya something and then be talked back to in the next instant. Crawford had made him regret each slip, every smart remark, lashing his back or legs or bottom as he was forced to repeat them again and again, left him bleeding to think about his insolence. He knew better. When had he become so lax as to not watch what he said? He knew his owner was going to punish him, and Aya could only hope Yohji would forgive him afterwards. He tightened his muscles, trying steel himself for the blow.

Omi was saying something and Yohji was talking, tugging on his arm, trying to get him to look up; Aya kept his head resolutely bowed, determined not to be hit across the face, at least not at first. He could manage it, as long as his owner didn't send him back.

"I'm sorry, Master. I am. I wasn't thinking. Please, don't…please," he tried to get air into his lungs, failed, and felt his head swim a bit. Again Yohji stopped him as he tried to sit.

"Aya, it's okay. Look here," Yohji said. Aya knew he was being spoken to, but his mind was in too much of a state to make sense of it. But his owner was persistent, "Aya. Look."

Finally, he did, reluctantly opening his eyes to look at his owner's chest. He couldn't bear to look him in the eyes.

* * *

Yohji had been on the verge of a laugh, but the impulse was derailed by the almost instantaneous reaction of Aya to his own quick words. Now he was struggling to get the boy to breathe and to look at him, fighting frustration at the rapid reversion of tone and name and not fucking looking at him.

"Aya. Look," he tried it as a command and, for better or worse, got a guarded stare aimed somewhere below his chin. Taking what he could get, he went on, "It's not big deal. I shouldn't—are you listening to me?"

"Yes, M—"

"Don't start that shit. I know you're upset, but pay attention for a second."

A nod. As the boy's breath began to settle, Yohji relaxed his hold on Aya's arm, hoping he wouldn't do anything as aggravating as getting on the floor.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Aya," he spoke slowly, trying to assure himself that Aya heard and understood. "I probably shouldn't have asked that."

"No," Aya said quietly, haltingly, "why…why would you…think any different?"

It was pitiful, and the look on his face was very near heartbreaking. Yohji got the sense that he had pricked, unintentionally, some deep insecurity.

"I shouldn't have thought it. That's what I mean. Just because you were…." It was lousy timing, but Yohji found himself completely abandoned by the eloquence that usually lingered around his words. He was loathe to say 'slave,' to force Aya to hear a word that they had been fighting against since their initial acquaintance. Yet he couldn't bring himself to sugarcoat it either.

"Slave," Aya supplied on his own, closing his eyes over the appellation and his fingers over the collar. "That's what I am."

"No," Yohji stated, hard and cold and trying his best not to yell, "you're not." Dropping the arm he had been holding, he used both hands to forcibly tilt Aya's head up so he could look into those strange eyes. Eventually they opened to his stare. "You're not that, not anymore. I'm sorry I thought it, Aya. And, trust me," he managed a smile, "I know you're not stupid."

The moment stretched almost to discomfort, with Aya staring at him, clearly confused, and him staring back, determined, both tired and tense and unable to look away.

Thankfully, Omi stepped in.

"Ignore him, Aya-kun. He's pretty but not very smart."

Dropping his hands from Aya's face, Yohji stepped around the surprised boy to drag Omi into a hug and snuggle him.

"Yohji-kun! Let go!"

"Never!" he declared, "You called me pretty, Omitichi, and now I'm yours forever!"

"I don't want you forever!"

~tbc~

Review to free Omi from Yohji's snuggly clutches!


	51. Tell Me

Notes: First, thank you all for the feedback! So, the vibe I get from the reviews (okay, it's not so much a vibe as direct statements) is that readers are ready for more concrete plot. The thing is, I know how I want it to happen, and I'm hesitant to scrap that in favor of clichéd kind of reveal of Schwartz's connections to both sides (if such a thing exists); however, I will try to hurry things along. To do that, I've decided on three changes to the plan. First, I'll skip on writing out every scene in favor of a few almost-flashback kind of summaries that will go more quickly. Second, I will try to skip forward on some of Aya's training time; everyone will just have to accept changes that happen in his personality and the increase of skill level, but it should help move things along. Third, I'll try (emphasis on try) to put out a couple longer chapters that will get us into the thick of it. Ganbatte, ne?

* * *

Chapter Fifty-One: Tell Me

* * *

After a few minutes of giddy struggling, Ken came over to put a stop to it before they broke something, managing to startle Aya as he yelled for the wrestling pair to cut it out. Yohji was quick to settle Aya to his right, slightly away from the well-meaning brunette. They all had the decency to look guilty, and once again Omi intervened to break the silence.

"So, Aya-kun, where did you go to school?" The question sounded casual, a good copy of the one traded everyday between teenagers meeting for the first time, but Yohji got a sense of something more. Thinking it was probably for their collective good, he encouraged Aya to answer, finding that his permissive nod was still mostly required for anyone else to get an answer out of the reticent redhead.

"Kitahashi Chūgakkō,*" he stated, hands twisting in the hem of the sweater.

Omi looked up to catch Yohji's eyes, but the blonde was at a loss as to what he was trying to convey and he soon gave it up to talk to Aya, or try to talk to him. Still visibly upset over his slip, the boy was being less cooperative than usual, staring silently at the floor.

"That's not far from here, you know?" he hinted for more information, and getting none, continued, "Sakura-san's cousin goes there. She said it's very hard since her cousin had to get a tutor. Did you find it difficult, Aya-kun?"

Again there was nothing, and Yohji waved Omi away from the subject. He and Aya still had things to do, and upsetting the kid wasn't going to get them done any quicker. Probably it would be best to give him a few minutes to get himself back together before they tried going out. But then again, leaving Aya alone in his current state could be equally detrimental.

Yohji decided being responsible was damn hard.

"Here," he took the seed catalog and put it back in Aya's hands, holding it there insistently when the boy tried to decline, "Take that in the house and pick out what you want, at least five, okay? I'll be in a few minutes."

"Yes, Yohji."

They watched him walk away, and as soon as the door closed, Omi began.

"Kitahashi! I didn't expect that," he commented, fingers tapping on the table, itching, Yohji knew, to get to his keyboard.

"You know it?"

Omi nodded, "It's a private school. We see a few girls from there, the ones with the maroon jackets with the gold crests," he tapped vaguely at his own chest to indicate the location of this symbol. "It's very prestigious. Aya-kun must have been very smart or very rich."

"Rich, huh?"

Again Omi nodded, only half with the conversation and no doubt plotting how he would go about getting his hands on specific information.

"I'm going to try to look it up, maybe get the school roles or reports for Fujimiya Aya."

"Have fun with that, chibi," Yohji dismissed, turning to go.

"Oh? Wait! I need to talk to you."

"I thought you just did."

* * *

Yohji was starting to feel his late night. His good mood had waned considerably over the last six hours, and as he leaned over his greasy hamburger and fries in the back of the bright, little diner, only consideration for his companion kept him from lighting up. Going out to eat had stressed Aya out to some degree, but even if he was staring at the tabletop, he was eating his fries with a bit of enthusiasm. This was partly due to Omi still limiting him to toast and rice and those disgusting vitamin shakes, and though Yohji hoped the food wouldn't make him sick, he wasn't about to deny Aya any food he would try to eat, especially not after the day they'd had.

All in all, Aya really had done well. Yohji, on the other hand, had been a nervous wreck. Not that it showed; he was cooler than that, but he felt like he was going to unravel if he didn't get a break pretty soon. True, he had just renewed his vow of protecting Aya, but the universe owed him. It did.

First there had been the conversation with Omi. The chibi had apologized, repeatedly, for ditching Aya the night before. He had thought that the boy would go to bed, otherwise he would never have left him to do his report. But he had to get it done, had to, and he hadn't thought to check afterwards. Omi admitted to hearing them in the hall when Yohji came in, only then realizing exactly how the redhead had been spending his time. He pleaded that Aya hadn't said anything, a defense that only made Yohji more angry; of course he hadn't said anything. Yohji wanted to yell at Omi, but he couldn't very well lecture someone on duty when he had shirked his own to go out and screw some chick—and he really didn't want to think about that—so he told Omi not to worry about it, but his voice hadn't been quite calm enough and the kid knew it.

After that fiasco of a talk, he had gathered up Aya and got him ready to go out. Between taking the tags off Aya's leather trench and helping the boy into the new coat, he felt a bit like a mommy trying to get her toddler to the park, just with more concern about being busted by the cops. Add to this Omi's renewed vigor in watching out for his charge and the entire process had taken almost an hour, during which the blonde had been forced to vie for Aya's attention.

Things didn't improve much when they got in the car. After his slipup in the shop, Aya had been on his strictest behavior which took all of five minutes to get on Yohji's nerves. He didn't press it, though, and they had arrived without incident. Then it had gotten difficult.

Aya had been far from at ease in the dark alley despite Yohji's assurances; there had been a brief moment of reprieve when he had shuffled towards instead of away from the older man as they waited at a dingy, unmarked door. But then Korat** opened it, looking as he always did, a short, stick of a man whose long, silver hair was pulled into a loose ponytail that completely failed to hide his bald crown; this might have been his most distinct feature if not for the missing eye. Yohji had never seen him wear a patch, and the place was a concave, matte stretch of pallid tissue. Aya had been hesitant to go in, and Yohji felt like shit ushering him through the door and into the tiny, dim room that served as the dealer's front office. His apprehension had visibly increased when Korat lifted his half-smoked joint from the glass ashtray and offered it to Yohji. Aya had stepped away from him.

He had declined, despite Korat's surprise. It wasn't Yohji's first visit, and they had shared a story or two, but it wasn't the time. Taking Aya by the arm, Yohji had tugged him forward, explaining what he wanted. Korat just nodded at the weapons request, frowning a little when Yohji didn't know what precisely, or even generally, he wanted to purchase, and then grinning when he discovered Aya was yet to get a code name.

_Balinese got himself a stray?_ The words haunted Yohji, and so did the leer they came with. Korat had spoken to Aya, and Yohji had been forced to tell him to reply. No, he had never fancied a particular method of killing. Then Korat wanted to take him in the back, alone.

It wasn't going to happen, not at first. There was some debate, Yohji tense and threatening and Korat just smoking and smiling through it while Aya tugged on the end of his sweater and tried not to be noticed. Ultimately, he went, with Yohji's promise for his safety, leaving the blonde to pace and smoke and wish Korat had left the pot.

They came back almost an hour later, Korat smiling and Aya carrying three long items.

_Shinai, bokken, katana,_ Korat had supplied. _He's had kendo._ Yohji had protested the short-range weapons, too much like Ken's and requiring Aya to be in the thick of the fight. He had been thinking of a high-tech bow or maybe shuriken or something, Aya staying out of range with Omi, or at least given a few feet with something like his own wire. This, this was not going to work.

_He has to be good, and you don't have time. _

So he had handed over the cash.

Realizing Aya had stopped eating about two-thirds through his fries and was currently worrying his hands as he stared intently at the plate, Yohji made quick work of his own food and dug some money out of his wallet.

"Let's go."

* * *

The Seven glided to a stop at the red light. For a second, Yohji watched the dark street between silent swipes of the windshield wipers. It had felt like rain when they came out of the diner, and he was thankful he had put up the top. The patter of rain against the canvas was the only sound in the car.

"Aya?"

Silence. He looked over to find Aya looking at the floorboard, red hair over his eyes.

"You awake?" It was late, and he wouldn't have been too surprised if the boy wasn't.

"Yes, Yohji."

The light turned green and they started again along the deserted road towards home.

"So, you practiced kendo?"

A long pause, "Yes, Yohji."

Trying to avoid the urge to snap at him, Yohji took a minute to shake a cigarette from his pack and light up, all without slowing down. Cracking the window, he flicked the first ashes outside before trying another tactic.

"You're gonna have to give me some information here. I've got to talk to that guy at the dojo tomorrow and Korat didn't tell me shit about what you told him. What'd you tell him, Aya?"

He was silent for almost a minute, and Yohji thought he might have pushed too hard. Then Aya began talking, quiet and slow, but trying to do what the other wanted. Yohji remained quiet, finishing his cigarette as he listened.

"He took me…to the other room, the bright one…There were weapons. I've never seen so many," there was quiet amazement in his voice. "He asked me questions, and I answered, like you said. I did what you said."

Yohji nodded, trying to reassure him.

"He wanted to know what I could do, what weapons I had used. I didn't…I hadn't…so he asked about sports. I did kendo, in school…before…a long time ago…maybe, whenever. He said that counted. He was . . . excited and took me to another room, the dark one, down the stairs. I…I didn't like it."

Again Yohji nodded, feeling worse for having made Aya do that.

"There were swords, twenty, maybe thirty of them, on the wall. He told me to pick one. They were…you paid a lot of money for it."

"Yeah, I know."

Now that he had said something, Aya seemed to be done talking. Yohji, more than pleased at the amount of words the redhead had gotten out, tried to start him again.

"How long did you do kendo?"

"A long time. Since I was small."

"Small?"

"Six or seven, with my grandfather."

It was really young, and Yohji flirted with the idea that Aya was lying to him, but as far as he knew the boy had yet to be untruthful.

"And in school?"

"Yes."

"Were you any good?" He had to be, to go on for seven years.

"I," Aya hesitated over something, fingers of his right hand looping around his left. Yohji noted the gesture and determined to stop the car if he had to. He was pushing it, but it was working and he couldn't quite convince himself to back off.

"Were you? It's okay if not."

"Yes. I was."

Guiding the car into the dark garage, Yohji unfastened his seatbelt and turned towards Aya, "Really?"

The boy nodded but didn't look at him, "Captain. I was captain of my team in junior high. I was supposed to…"

"What?"

"Nothing, Yohji."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It's nothing."

~tbc~

Notes:

* I usually try to avoid sticking in random Japanese, but I couldn't quite figure a way around this without forcibly American-izing the school system. So, secondary education in Japan can generally be divided between chūgakkō (junior high; grades 7,8,9) and kōtōgakkō or kōkō (high school; grades 10, 11, 12). From here on out, I'll simply use "Junior High," but it has to be the Japanese system for Aya's age to work out right. The name is completely fictional and means something along the lines of North Bridge Junior High.

**A cat breed, of course.

Leave a review and I'll let Subaru-san out of this closet so he can work on the plot! How did he get in there? Well…don't you want to review now?


	52. Train Me

Notes: *peeks out from under her rock, debates continuing to hide, realizes she owes some explanation for her absence and reluctantly approaches the readers* Well, uh, you see…I do have an excuse…sort of. I kind of psyched myself out with this one (wasn't it supposed to be the easy fic? I think so...) and there was this super-important project I was working on (aka, my Halloween outifit—I went as Rum Tum Tugger this year—which was a month long ordeal of construction) and I kind of used that as an excuse not to work on this 'cause I didn't want to mess it up. I'm not thrilled with this chapter either, but I thought it was due, so, yeah, okay, I'm gonna go back under this rock now.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Two: Train Me

Yohji came back from the bathroom to find Aya staring at his katana. The boy had followed his directions and was dressed in a pair of blue silk pajamas that were just a little big for him, hanging towards his fingertips and over his bare feet as he sat cross-legged on the bed with the sword in front of him. The brief look he gave Yohji was guilty, but he was quick to lower his eyes.

For a few minutes Yohji wandered the room, getting ready to sleep but mostly trying to figure out how to put Aya more at ease. His focus was divided as he noticed the clutter of moving in an extra person was starting to build up, and he had to step over a pile of dirty clothes to get to his chest of drawers and find something sleep in. He really needed to buy himself some proper sleepwear if this clothes to bed thing was going to be a habit, and it probably was, since there was no way in hell he could convince Aya that his being naked was not a threat. Shedding his shirt and jeans onto the top of the pile, he pulled on the soft, navy track pants. He debated a shirt, frowned at the idea, but pulled it over his head anyway. It was loose and a little pink from a washer mishap, but it worked.

He dropped his shades to the nightstand, then went to the dresser to brush his hair in front of the mirror. Aya was looking at him in the reflective surface; their eyes met, just for a second, and Yohji realized he had been under intense scrutiny the entire time.

"Ready to sleep?" he asked, still staring even when Aya looked away.

Aya nodded, running a slender finger down the length of the sword's lacquer sheath. Slowly he drew the hand away and looked up again, "Where should I put it?"

"Eh? Uh, here, I keep my watch on the dresser."

Violet eyes widened slightly at the overt mention of Yohji's own weapon, but he chose to ignore it. Taking it off as evidence, Yohji placed it on the dresser before scooting over his collection of jewelry and bottles and odds and ends to make room for Aya's sword. Determined that the boy take responsibility for it from the start, he waited there rather than reaching for it.

After Aya had gotten up and set it in place, Yohji flicked the light. He watched from his place near the door as Aya lifted the edge of the blankets and crawled in. No matter how many nights he did it, there was always a look of disbelief. Shaking his head, Yohji joined him, slipping between the cool sheets.

It was dark and quiet, and he wanted Aya to be near him. He didn't take time to evaluate the impulse. The boy was across the bed, curled up like he was cold. It took considerable will power not to reach out and grab him in order to drag him over. That, however, would not get Yohji any sleep, and certainly would not get him sleep with a warm body next to him.

"Aya?" he whispered, reaching, very gently, to brush one silk-covered arm. Aya was quick to turn over and look at him, questioning and nervous. "Want to sleep over here, like last night?"

Even in the dark, Yohji could sense the building panic, and he cursed himself for causing it. Still, though, he couldn't rid himself of the notion that it was incredibly stupid for them to sleep so far apart. Obviously Aya was cold despite the layers of covers, and it went without saying that Yohji preferred being next to someone at night. There had to be a way to get through it without a complete breakdown.

"I'm not going to try anything. You know that; I hope you know that. It's just better, you know, to sleep next to each other, right? Just sleep, like last night."

Aya nodded, not the least sure, but he let Yohji guide him closer. The blonde was careful to keep his touches light, first getting Aya to roll over next to him, then, as if he were trying to cuddle a porcupine, gingerly wrapping his arms around the boy and drawing his thin shoulders up onto Yohji's chest. He had to suppress a wave of elation as Aya's head settled under his chin of its own volition, but even after three or four minutes, the boy was still tense and certainly not sleeping.

"Aya?"

"Yes, Yohji."

"Go to sleep."

* * *

Aya woke up tired, but he was warm and comfortable. The nightmares had been bad. He didn't think he had woken up with every one, but each time he did, he found Yohji holding on to him, saying odd things and telling him it would be okay. Even now the blonde was rousing under his slight movements, and Aya tried to hold still so he could sleep.

* * *

It was a little before eight in the evening when Yohji pulled the Seven into the small, gravel lot behind the dojo. He had expected it to be further away, but the drive had taken barely fifteen minutes. According to Korat, it was a Kritiker facility, not in the way of the Koneko which operated as a front for a wet work operation, but rather like the hospital, a place that carried on some normal business but specialized in dealing with Kritiker's agents in a secure manner.

Yohji surveyed the place through the windshield. It wasn't anything special, a three-story gray stone building blending in with its surrounding. They had been instructed to enter through the back door.

Putting out his cigarette, he looked over to Aya. The boy was sitting stiffly in his seat, sword and practice swords in his arms and gathered against his chest. Yohji found it hard to read his mood.

"C'mon," he directed, opening his door. Aya quickly did the same, looking at the gravel as they approached the unmarked door. Yohji half expected it to be locked, but it turned easily under his hand, and they stepped together into a short, fluorescent-lit hallway. Following it, Yohji marked a few normal doors, offices, locker rooms, and so forth. Coming to the end, they made a right turn and ended up in the open space of what was clearly a training room.

The ceilings were high, and the long wall to their right was covered floor to ceiling with mirrors. There was a slight step down in front of these, and the lower portion of the floor was hardwood, creating a space for kendo that Yohji judged to be the size of a large room.

The upper portion of the floor was tightly woven tatami save for the small square of white tile on which they were standing. Here there were two benches and a small cabinet for shoes; Yohji felt slightly oppressed by the traditional element of it all. It reminded him of his grandmother's house, a place where he was never really welcome. Turning his thoughts from that, he latched on to the more modern touches; opposite the mirrors was a blue, mat covered area, and beside that what looked like a shop (at least judging by the register and neatly displayed practice weapons and branded clothing). And, there, directly across them was the front entry way, the glass doors just visible beyond; they were shuttered, marking the place as closed.

He felt someone behind them before they spoke.

"You're early." The voice was smooth and low and brimming with an authority that instantly rankled Yohji.

"Didn't expect it to be so close," he excused, casually, as he turned to look at the man. He was tall, about Yohji's own height but not nearly as thin, probably in his mid-thirties. His long, dark hair was tied tightly back in a low ponytail, and he was dressed in dark blue hakama and a gi of the same color; Yohji noted the embroidered rank and position on the right side, leaving no doubt as to his position as sensei.

He looked Yohji over briefly, but there was little expression in his gray eyes and absolutely no shift of his angular features. The same was leveled at Aya, though the length of study was considerably longer, long enough to make Yohji uncomfortable. But just as he went to speak, he was cut off.

"Names?"

"Balinese, and he—"

A lifted hand quieted him, though Yohji instantly berated himself for obeying the motion.

"This is not a Kritiker matter," the man said, dropping his hand and looking hard at Yohji. "Korat contacted me on your behalf, but I understand that this is a private transaction not undertaken by the organization. You will call me Sato, and," he turned again to Aya, staring at the collection of weaponry in his hands, "you will obviously call me Sensei."

"Kudou," Yohji gave up grudgingly, "and this Fujimiya Aya."

"Fujimiya," Sato repeated, looking him up and down again. "Are you skilled?"

"He's—"

"Does he speak?"

"Of course," Yohji snapped back at being interrupted, his immediate dislike for Sato morphing quickly into something akin to hate. He had a feeling their relationship wasn't going to get any better, either.

"Then he'll speak for himself. What training have you had?"

"Just school."

"High school?"

"Junior high."

"That's nothing," he shook his head. "We'll start from the beginning. There," he pointed to a nearby stack of uniforms sitting on one of the short benches, "pick something that will fit and go change, quickly."

"Yes, Sensei."

He had made a mistake. This had been a terrible idea. Yohji was set and determined to get Aya the hell out of there, but just as he was about to announce this intention, Sato started talking again.

"We'll train quickly. I expect him here on time every night excepting Sunday. He will arrive at 8:00, and he will leave at 10:30. You will not stay."

Not stay? Yohji had two words to say to that, and one hand gesture that would sum them up nicely.

"I'm not—"

"You are," he stated, not looking at Yohji. Instead, he watched Aya carefully lay down his weapons and pick through the pile of clothing. Gathering two pieces into his arms, he hesitated, then started back down the hallway. The instant he left the room, Sato continued, "You have no time. You don't have to like me, Kudou-san," the appellation was laced with his own disapproval, "but you will not compromise this."

"I—"

"I understand there is some history, though Korat only hinted at it; it is enough that you initiated this instead of the organization. I don't care what his story is, only that he learns, but he will be safe here, I assure you. You will leave during our lessons because it will be a distraction."

"Don't—"

"Kudou-san, you have very little time before he returns. Don't you think it would be pertinent to pay me? We have agreed on a considerable sum."

"Fine, damn it," Yohji conceded, feeling like he had been completely steamrolled. But Sato was right, terribly logical in his reasoning. Worse, Yohji wasn't sure if he could take him in a fight, and while he would have liked nothing better than to find out, they really were there for a reason. Digging his wallet from his back pocket, he carefully counted out the bills and handed them over.

* * *

Aya let his hands do the work without thinking. Deftly they adjusted the white gi and tied the black hakama around his thin hips. It was all distantly familiar, but he did his best not to think about the last time he had done it, not to miss his mother's sweet smile, his sister's encouraging words. No. He refused to dwell on that. He was moving forward. He was doing something.

He didn't mean to look in the locker room mirror, but it arrested his attention just as he turned to leave. The figure reflected there was odd, hovering somewhere between the pathetic thing that had greeted him two weeks ago and what he had been before. It was uncomfortable to look at, and he turned away from it as he had from his thoughts, summoning his determination as the door swung shut behind him.

His bare feet made little sound on the tile floor, and it was clear neither of the men heard him. For that, Aya was glad, because when he saw Yohji hand over a roll of bills, he couldn't help but remember.

* * *

_There were lights and hands. He was dragged forward, shoved even as he stumbled up the stairs. Forced to his knees, he tried to look up, but the lights hurt his eyes. He could hear people, a loud voice, but the drugs made his head thick with the noise and he couldn't make out the words._

_What was going on?_

_Schuldig had told him__,__ but he couldn't remember. He knew only that he wanted to get away, to go somewhere quiet so he could sort out his thoughts._

_Clapping. What?_

_The leash was unsnapped from his neck, and Aya looked around for Schuldig. There were legs beside him, and he looked up. A man, he had seen him before, but Aya couldn't place where. He smiled and produced something from his pocket._

_Money, Aya realized, and something inside him screamed that it wasn't right. He wasn't a thing to be bought._

_/You are./_

_He turned from it, looking up at the other who had come up close to him, expecting the same horrific grin. The man moved to block the bright light to look at him. It was a stranger, tall and thin and handsome. He looked confused, and suddenly Aya hoped something had gone wrong, that he wasn't being sold into some new horror. This man, the one with the confused, sad eyes, wouldn't buy him, wouldn't torture him._

_Someone said something, and the man moved to snap the leash onto his collar.

* * *

_

"Okay?"

At Aya's sharp intake of breath, Yohji jerked back his hand. Aya stared at him for a minute, then dropped his gaze a nodded, a vague answer to Yohji's question. Unsure, the blonde continued.

"Listen, he wants me to leave while you practice. I'm going to wait in the car. You'll be safe here, but I'll be right out there if you need me, okay?"

The purple eyes that came back up said it was very much not okay, but Aya nodded, seemingly unable to get out even his set response. Uneasy, Yohji hesitated to leave, and it was only at Sato's stern urging that he left them alone.

~tbc~

Subaru-san: Please review. It helps me get her out of hiding.


	53. Time Me

Notes: I'm so glad people are still reading this! All of your kind reviews motivated me to hurry up and get this chapter done; thank you!

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Three: Time Me

* * *

Two hours later, Yohji was beginning to feel a little sick. It might have been his stomach twisting in worry, or maybe it had something to do with his chain smoking not only the rest of his open pack but most of his dashboard emergency pack as well. Looking at the three cigarettes left in the latter, he shook his head and tossed them aside in favor of checking the clock for at least the hundredth time. The green numbers read 10:26, and deciding he could walk to the door very slowly, he got out of the car.

After lingering in the dark parking lot, looking and feeling like a shifty character, Yohji started down the hall. He wasn't sure what he expected exactly, but it was not to see Aya laid out on the floor with Sato leaning over him. His entire system jolted, going from unease to angry panic in two seconds flat. He must have shouted something, because Sato's head snapped around, and Aya tried to get up, but the older man's hand was pressed against his chest.

"What the hell is . . ."

His words trailed off as he got close enough to see exactly what the hell was, or rather wasn't, going on. Laying on the floor with a folded jacket tucked under his head, Aya looked pale but okay; kneeling at his side, Sato retrieved a damp cloth from the floor where it had fallen and replaced it back across his forehead.

"He's fine," Sato informed, unmoved by Yohji's near meltdown and by the fact that he was going to get seriously mauled if he kept touching Aya's face, placing the cloth or not; Yohji would take his hand off in a second.

Okay, even he realized he seriously needed to calm down.

Nothing was happening. Aya was fine. Everything was fine.

A few deep breaths brought him back to the situation more calmly, and he stared back as Sato regarded him intently.

"I need to speak with you," he said. Yohji nodded, unclenching his fist and forcibly shifting his legs from the aggressive stance they had settled into. Sato stood, and as he did Aya went to sit again; leaning down, the dark haired man placed a hand on his chest to guide him back down. Yohji watched Aya stiffen, his whole body tense, like he might run.

"Please don't touch him," Yohji heard his own words, as tense as Aya. Sato looked at him, removed his hand slowly and straightened.

"Don't get up too quickly," he directed calmly to Aya, whose eyes were flicking between the two of them. "But perhaps you should get ready to go."

There was certain relief in familiarity as Aya looked to him for affirmation, and Yohji nodded, offering a hand to help him slowly to his feet. He held slim fingers a little longer than necessary, trying to assure himself that the redhead was indeed okay. When he was released, Aya picked up his clothes and left the room in silence.

"What happened?" Yohji asked, trying to suppress an anger that rose again of its own volition when he so much as looked at Sato. He recognized that it wasn't quite right for him to have such a strong feeling, but that didn't change a damn thing.

"He passed out," the other replied, meeting his stare but not responding to the emotion in it. "He's malnourished; it makes it difficult to train him. You need to take better care of him."

No! Yohji practically shouted the word at himself, because in that instant he really, really wanted to take out this guy, Kritiker or not. He might not be able to kill him, but he could at least get in a punch or two, maybe a good one to the gut before—another deep breath.

Waiting in the car had not helped his mood. There was too much tension, and it reminded him of other places he had waited.

"I don't understand," he managed; it was cold.

"I think you do. He needs food, care. You can't expect your, your, whatever you call him—"

"You don't know what you're—"

"I've seen starvation enough to recognize it."

"You think I did this?"

"I don't know, but here he is, looking at you for every direction, barely able to speak once you leave a room, wearing a collar that he won't take off even for practice—"

"I fucking rescued him, you ass. There's no way I would ever—"

The lifted hand again; Yohji debated biting it, just for some variation.

"I do not care. He is in your care at present, yes?"

"Yes."

"Then take care of him. He needs more food, and he needs water. He's severely dehydrated. I don't care what the situation is, but he will never be able to do this if his health doesn't improve. Do you understand?"

About to give the guy a serious piece of his mind, Yohji was interrupted as Aya returned. He watched the redhead put down the clothes he had borrowed, noticing anew how thin he was. Yohji realized he had been busy noting the improvements, but for someone who hadn't seen Aya a week before, the emaciated, timid boy before him might very well look neglected.

"Damn it," he swore, causing Aya to look at him worriedly and Sato to turn away. "Nothing," he excused himself to the former who immediately averted his eyes.

"Aya, come here please," Sato requested. The eyes came back to Yohji who nodded, feeling much less satisfaction than he had earlier.

When Aya stood beside them in the little shop, Sato pulled something from a shelf. Unfolding it, he revealed a long, narrow bag and handed it to Aya.

"Put your things in this. You shouldn't carry the katana out in the open," he warned, and though Yohji was receiving zero attention, he felt insulted. It wasn't that big of a deal, he thought, to bring a sword into a dojo. "And take the clothes you wore tonight. I expect you to practice at home. You have space?"

Aya looked to Yohji, who nodded. Aya nodded in turn.

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

Without a farewell to Yohji, Sato simply walked away, expecting them to see their own way out.

* * *

Aya had been exhausted the night before, barely getting out of the shower and into his PJs before he was asleep on top of the covers. Yohji was surprised he got up the next morning ready to go to the shop and eager, in that quiet, reserved way, to try a few more arrangements. Leaving him to work with Ken's questionable supervision, Yohji went back into the house to quickly find them all some breakfast. Omelets would be good, but they didn't really work as carryout, so he settled for some toast and jam and, thinking about what Sato had said, grabbed a bottle of water for Aya.

The boy looked at him curiously as the paper plate and bottle were settled at his elbow. Plopping down his own food, Yohji pulled a chair up to the corner of the work table and started eating. Tying off a bow, Aya hesitantly picked up his own toast, looked at it for a long second, then started to eat. When he had finished it all, Yohji opened the water and pushed it closer.

"Drink this," he stated.

Aya looked at him for a second, lifted the bottle, and took a drink, all the while looking as if he expected it to be some kind of trick. Yohji sighed.

"Aya, you'd tell me if you needed anything, right? Like, if you're hungry or thirsty or something, you'd tell me?"

There was a long pause, and Aya didn't meet his eyes when he answered, "Yes, Yohji."

Yohji had a feeling it was going to be another long day.

* * *

"What do you think about him?"

He got a curious stare for his inquiry and had to roll his eyes in response.

"Sato. Do you like him?"

"Yes, Yohji."

"He's not…he doesn't scare you?"

There was a certain stiffening of shoulders that Yohji thought might be indignation, but it was gone before he could be sure. Aya shook his head, no; he still resisted saying the word aloud, and Yohji could only imagine what punishments he had faced for doing so.

* * *

For several nights, he had waited in the car, thinking about all the things that might go wrong. Nothing did, and despite being a complete ass to Yohji, Sato seemed to be genuinely concerned for Aya's welfare. On Friday night, Yohji told Aya he was going back home and would come get him at the end of his lesson. There was more than a little unspoken unease on both their parts, Yohji chewing the end of his unlit cigarette and Aya studying the car's floor mat, his right hand inching towards his left wrist in the nervous gesture that made Yohji cringe.

"Forget it. I'll stay."

Aya shook his head, a little too hard. No.

"Aya?"

"You…I," he sighed, shutting his eyes. They opened again, coming up to the dash rather than the floor; his voice was more determined, if slightly unsure, "I'll be fine."

"I don't have to go."

He went, not far, to the cramped excuse for a restaurant across the street. It was crowded and noisy and the noodles cost twice as much as they should, but the waitress was pretty and she sat him next to the window where he could watch the dojo. Not that he could see anything; with the shades drawn, the place looked closed, the only visibly light coming from an upstairs window. It was safer that way, but not very comforting.

Yohji ordered a bottle of overpriced sake and tried not to watch the clock.

* * *

Aya met him at the door, Sato standing to his left. No longer bothering with pleasantries, Yohji ignored the older man to focus in on Aya. He looked tired, but there was something else about him that Yohji couldn't quite lay his finger on, not something bad, something…else. He tried to parse it out, noting in passing the bag over the boy's shoulder, the collar at his neck, the way his damp hair clung to his face and forehead. He had worked hard, and the something, maybe it was accomplishment. Yes. It wasn't that he looked proud as he stared at the ground in front of him, just, well, a little less lost. Yohji liked it.

"Come on," he motioned to the Seven. The dojo door shut behind them with a metal clang that he barely heard.

They settled into the car, Aya adjusted his bag beside him while Yohji fiddled with the radio. The quiet voices from the speakers were suddenly interrupted by a surprisingly loud grumble from Aya's stomach.

"Sorry," he whispered, laying his hand over his middle as if to stifle further disruption. Yohji had to smile.

"Hungry?"

Not much hesitation there, "Yes."

~tbc~

Just one review can feed a starving slug for two whole days.


	54. Track Me

Notes: Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I hope you all are having a nice day and that your families are slightly less crazy than mine.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Four: Track Me

* * *

Though he had dreaded it, fought it, and complained about it, Yohji had to admit that training might, just might, be good for Aya. Okay, so it was good. It tired him out, but in just over a week, his sessions with Sato, along with the continued care he received at home, had him looking noticeably better. He seemed more focused, he didn't back into corners as often, and he was eating better. While naps were still fairly common, and recommended on Yohji's part, they were becoming less necessary. There were still the set responses, the looking down, and a hundred other things to work on, but the first time the boy sat down and cleaned his plate, Yohji was ready to celebrate. The biggest drawback, as far as he could see, was the fact that Aya had started waking up early.

* * *

"Stay still."

Aya tried. He tried hard, leveling his breathing and keeping himself as still as possible. Yohji sighed.

"Okay, fine, get up then."

Grateful, Aya lifted himself from the blonde's chest and scooched to his side of the bed, only to have the sleeve of his PJs caught. He looked back, feeling odd to be sitting while Yohji was still laying down. Maybe the other had changed his mind, maybe it would be better if Aya just laid down and waited quietly. But Yohji always slept so long, and he didn't like Aya to just lay there. He didn't know what to do.

"What're you gonna do?" Yohji asked, opening only one eye to look up at him as he unconsciously echoed the redhead's thoughts.

"What should I do, Yohji?"

"As long as it doesn't wake me up, I don't care. It's," he rolled over to look at the clock, "Christ, Aya, it's six-thirty in the morning."

"I'm s—"

"S'too early for sorry."

"I—"

"Aya," he interrupted. Aya waited with baited breath, fearing the impending punishment for his insolence. It hadn't happened yet, and sometimes, more than he would like, he thought it might not, but for all his trust in his owner, he couldn't shake the idea that he might have, this once, crossed the line. But Yohji wasn't angry.

"What do you want to do?"

What did he want? It was one of those questions that his owner liked to ask, and one that Aya always had a hard time answering. More often, though, he was finding that there were things he would like to do, and, stranger, that

Yohji really wanted to know.

"Can I go train? Downstairs?"

"This early? Sure, knock yourself out."

* * *

Yohji wanted sleep. It was Sunday, and Sunday meant a warm bed and nothing that even resembled morning. But at a little after eight, he found himself up, showered, and dressed. It was strange, he thought, that his mouth didn't taste like stale booze and that he had nothing resembling a headache, just a mild feeling of injustice at being out of bed, and that was his own doing.

After a moment of contemplation at the top of the stairs, he started down to find out exactly where Aya was and what he was doing. The boy didn't cause trouble, at least not intentionally, and very rarely by his own fault, but Yohji couldn't shake a desire to know his whereabouts at all times. Ken had accused him of hovering; Yohji brushed it off, at least until the brunette caught him using his smoke break to check in on the greenhouse, again.

For his part, Aya didn't seem to mind, at least not as far as Yohji could tell. He still wasn't sure how honest or open the boy was being with his own feelings on the matter, or any matter, but he seemed content enough in Yohji's presence and tagged along behind him unless the blonde told him specifically that he could, or should remain somewhere.

Walking through the living room, he turned a right and headed down the twisting metal stairs that led to the basement. There, past the mission room, was the large room they had converted to a gym of sorts. The original intentions had been some grand workout room where they would all train on a daily basis, but as soon as the most functioning matters were taken care of, they had largely lost interest in the project.

The long, rectangular room took up half of the basement. On one end there was a collection of workout equipment, front and center a weight bench that Ken and Yohji actually made use of, but behind that was a stationary bike that collected dust and held up a blue jacket that had been there forever. The rowing machine had found a similar fate, as had the half-inflated exercise ball. Against the wall leaned a target that Omi had once used for practice, soon realizing that he got quite enough at work, and beside it a collection of posts and other dummy targets

The other side of the room had been mostly empty, and Yohji had only had to move a few mats to free up a nice space for Aya to practice. The floor, he thought, could probably use waxing, but Aya didn't seem deterred by the flat, wooden surface. That first day, Yohji had vowed to renew his project with Ken to put up mirrors down there, there already being two secured to the wall and a wrapped stack of others occupying the far corner. While he had promised to fix the shortcomings, Aya had been quietly impressed with the whole setup and more than eager to put it to use. So, along with the greenhouse, he had acquired another favorite spot.

Yohji didn't stay to watch him practice. He didn't like anyone watching him with the wire, whether practicing or killing, and assumed it was the same for Aya. Maybe it wasn't, but Sato had called his presence a distraction, and as much as it offended him, with their time limit, they couldn't afford any distractions.

Opening the gym door, he expected to see Aya at his katas, but the center of the room was empty. Once he stepped inside, though, he found his object. Dressed in simple t-shirt and sweatpants (these being his workout clothes since Yohji had figured out exactly how difficult it was to properly launder a pair of hakama), Aya was sitting against the white wall, his bokken lying close beside him and his arms wrapped around the knees he had drawn up. He didn't look up as Yohji entered, and the blonde knew something was wrong.

He walked over and took a seat beside him; then he waited.

Finally, Aya lifted his head, looked at him, and returned to staring at his knees. He looked sad.

"What's wrong?" It was simple, but Yohji had finally gotten it through his head that simple was often best with Aya.

"I can't do it," the boy said quietly, despondently.

"Can't do what?"

"I used to practice for hours, almost every day. Now…I really _was_ good, Yohji, I was."

It was more words that he usually got on a subject, and, more rare, a little comment on the past.

"Give it time," he replied, not quite sure what the problem was. Obviously Aya had run upon some kind of difficulty, but whether physical or mental Yohji couldn't be sure. "You've only been at it for what, a little over a week? It takes time."

"We don't have time." It was almost a whisper, and if Yohji had thought Aya wasn't aware of the seriousness of their endeavor, his doubts were suddenly expelled.

"Don't stress over it," he dismissed, trying to shake off the leaden feeling the words had instilled in his own person. He sat still for a minute, then, levering himself up, he turned back to look down at the other. "You're doing good, Aya. Hell, Sato says your doing great, and I get the feeling he doesn't really do compliments, you know?"

No answer; Aya remained solemn. Nope, that wasn't gonna cut it. It was Sunday, after all, and Sundays were good days.

"Come on, that's enough. It's our day off; what do you want to work for anyway?"

Not for the first time, he reached a hand out to help Aya up. Purple eyes came up, still so unsure, like he might get slapped at any moment. It took a lot of effort not to look away, but Yohji held the stare just like he held the cool hand that was put in his own as he helped Aya up. Unexpectedly, as soon as he gained his feet, the boy fell, forcing Yohji to turn and catch him quickly before he hit the ground. Well, that explained the sitting; the kid had worn himself out.

"Geez, Aya, come on. That's definitely enough practice. Let's get the hell out of here."

~tbc~

Leave a review? I'd be thankful…and it might get the slug away from the pudding. I'm not sure what he's doing with it, but it's not good.


	55. Trip Me

Notes: I have so many moments planned for this, now I just have to figure out how they all fit together! Along those same lines, I realize the narrative timing of this chapter is a bit off, but I'm trying to get along with it and, to that end, avoid showing each and every scene that may not be important for the plot. Still, I'll do better next time…or at least try…

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Five: Trip Me

* * *

Aya sat quietly at the table while Yohji fixed breakfast, chattering away about how he was definitely going to make omelets. He wanted to know whether Aya liked this or that, holding up each ingredient in turn as if he wouldn't know what a pepper or an onion was. Aya didn't like onions, but it was a tense moment as he debated if and how to tell Yohji that.

It was a little thing. An insignificant triviality, but they seemed to consume his life now. Before it had been simple, awful, but simple. Crawford didn't give a damn what he thought or wanted or liked, and if Schuldig asked, it was only to find one more thing to use against him. But he could find no use in Yohji's questions except to find out about him.

It was strange, and yet, he knew it shouldn't be. This was normal, but the other things, the training, the swords, the woman with the red hair, that wasn't. Sometimes it got confused in his head, and Aya desperately tried to sort it all out. He knew, too well, that to confuse normal with not was to lose it completely.

His life was not normal, but there were, now, normal parts in it.

Yohji fixing breakfast was normal.

* * *

"Sit on the bed for a second," he directed. Aya nodded, sitting, a little hesitantly, on the edge of the bed and watching him attentively. It might have driven another person crazy, but, for the most part, Yohji didn't mind being watched about his normal activities. Other things, well, that was different, but this was okay. Plus, if Aya was looking at him, he wasn't looking at the floor, and that was a victory.

"Okay, here's the plan," he started, standing in the middle of the room with hands on his hips. He made a quick survey, formulating the plan he had just announced; there had to be some way to deal with the mounting disarray of stuff. His own things hadn't been in perfect order before, and with the addition of Aya's clothes over the chair and his sword on the dresser and the general shuffling of items, it was getting hard to navigate the space. "Our room is a disaster, and that's my fault, but I do have a plan. See these," he gestured to the pile of dirty clothes that was collecting near the closet and door, "these have to get washed, so we'll throw them out in the hall."

To demonstrate, he picked up the closest item, a pair of his jeans, and tossed them gently through the open door and into the hall.

"Then, we're gonna clean out the closet, get rid of some of my stuff, and get some of your stuff in there. Then we'll think about the rest. Okay?"

Aya nodded.

* * *

With Aya in competent command of the washer, dryer, and, to Yohji's complete surprise, iron, the laundry had been progressing steadily. Meanwhile, the blonde had managed to empty almost a third of his closet. While he was a man of many fashions, Yohji had very little staying power with any, and he rotated his wardrobe on a regular basis. So it didn't pain him to mark for the charity bin the shirts he hadn't worn in the last six months or the pants he was, in truth, never going to wear (they made his thin hips look inexplicably wide) along with each and every item he had bought while going through a brief but interesting phase where he thought he looked good in purple.

On second thought, he set a couple of these back for Aya to try on, thinking the color might do him justice. If they didn't clash too badly with his hair.

Leaving the boy to fold a few items, he went to the garage to hunt up another empty box. It took longer than he expected (mostly since he had already raided the area for three other boxes), and by the time he emptied Ken's spare soccer balls out of one and brought it back, Aya was sleeping quietly beside a stack of neatly folded clothes. Setting down his empty box, Yohji loosened the edge of the comforter and pulled it over him.

* * *

Aya didn't go to the dojo on Sundays, and having completed their cleanup, the two of them had the evening to do as they pleased, or, well, as Yohji pleased since Aya didn't seem to have an opinion on the matter. The week before, their night off had been full of odds and ends, and Yohji realized it was probably the first night in several weeks when they truly didn't have to accomplish anything.

Omi had stopped by earlier (attracted, no doubt, by the growing pile of clothes that had at that time occupied the hallway) and asked if they wanted to go to a movie. Yohji had declined, thinking a dark theater was a place where Aya wouldn't feel comfortable. Half an hour later, and still bereft of company, Omi had come back to announce he had decided to rent movies instead. Since they had been polled on their preferences (Aya having none despite Yohji's prodding), Yohji thought it might be polite to actually watch one of them with Omi. It wasn't like he had a hot date anyway.

For a fleeting moment, he wished for a bar and a girl, for the heavy rhythm of a song he knew and the hot tangle of bodies, but remembering his last outing was as good as a spray of cold water.

So once Aya had woken up and Yohji had assured him that he didn't have to apologize for sleeping, they headed downstairs. Having left the living room to assist an excited Omi with snacks, Yohji came back to see Aya settled into the armchair. He had to smile. For once, the boy actually looked reasonably comfortable, with his legs drawn up beneath him and the battered seed catalog in his hands.

Yohji wondered at this. Aya had lugged around the catalog, staring at it whenever he got a few minutes of time apart from the others. He had asked Yohji if it was okay, and unable to think of why it wouldn't be (save for the fact that it was weird), Yohji had shrugged it off. Now, though, he wondered what the boy's fascination with the book was. Of all the things for him to drag around like a security blanket, the creased, worn catalog was an odd choice.

"Want to order more seeds?" he questioned casually as he set a bowl of chips down on the coffee table.

No, Aya shook his head, not lifting his eyes from the pages.

Yohji stared for a few minutes, trying to figure out what was interesting about seeds. Finally, he admitted to himself he didn't get it. Plopping down on the sofa, he watched Aya until the boy looked up, only to immediately look down. It happened so often that it was almost funny, some odd inside joke they played at.

"Okay, explain it, please."'

He got a questioning look, and when it verged on worry, he tried again.

"The catalog. Why do you keep reading it?"

"I'm sorry—"

"Aya," he interrupted, smiling, "It's fine. I'm just curious, that's all. I mean, I've seen it, it's not exactly a thrilling thing to read."

"It's just…"

He waited.

"It's _something_ to read." Aya shook his head, like his explanation was lacking. Yohji could sense he was about to apologize again and headed it off.

"You like to read?"

"Yes...Yohji."

The name was an afterthought, and Yohji couldn't have been happier. Aya had been forgetting it more and more, and thought he hadn't said anything, Yohji could only hope it was disappear altogether.

"Did you read a lot, before?"

"Yes, Yohji."

Well, that made a lot of sense. It put together a few pieces, like why he couldn't get a decent opinion on anything related to the television, why Aya had been offended that Yohji thought he might not be able to read, why he drug around the stupid catalog. Except, Yohji realized, it wasn't all that stupid to him.

* * *

The evening had been going well. Everything had felt relaxed, a nice change to the tension that was fast becoming the norm. The others seemed to have forgiven him his recent screw up with getting them put on Kritiker's shit list, and Ken had joined them to watch a trivial kind of comedy that was funny without trying too hard. They had laughed and poked fun when the main character began to resemble a certain clumsy soccer player, and Yohji was amazed to see Aya watch their exchange with open interest. The boy was more relaxed than he had ever seen him, and, if not for his reservation, he might have been one of the guys.

Around eight, Omi had ordered a pizza.

Yohji guessed that's where things started to go downhill.

Aya had been reluctant to eat it, and Yohji had insisted, not sure where the sudden resistance was coming from. Not about to argue with any force, Aya did as he was told. Yohji watched off and on with satisfaction until, having almost finished the second piece the blonde had placed on his plate, Aya put it down and made a sudden dash from the room.

Finding himself treated to a confused look from Ken and an accusatory one from Omi, Yohji swore under his breath and forced himself off the couch. He felt bad, but, really, he thought Aya could handle a couple pieces of pizza. He'd been doing well lately, but, as Yohji belatedly realized, two things had often proved to be the enemy, grease and meat, both of which the pizza had in excess. Why hadn't the boy just told him he couldn't eat it?

With another sigh, Yohji leaned against the wall outside the bathroom, a post that was increasingly familiar. He listened to the water run and waited for the door to open, trying not to be frustrated and generally losing the battle. It was more his fault than Aya's, he supposed, not that he liked taking the blame. Actually, he was getting pretty damn sick of it.

The door opened, and Aya came out, clearly expecting him there. He looked pale and embarrassed and prepared for reprimand. This Yohji was determined not to give, even if he did feel the urge to lecture.

"Come on." It was clipped, but calm; Aya, though, seemed to sense his mood, responding tensely and following behind Yohji at a set distance.

They went back downstairs, and Aya settled back in his chair. But it wasn't the same. His head rested against the leather, tired, and he watched the movie with a kind of detached distance.

Omi had switched the tape and turned off the lights, leaving only the kitchen fixture to cast shadows into the living room. The opening credits were running against a dark backdrop while eerie music played. Yohji didn't have to try too hard to figure out what kind of film it was, and he gave Omi a nod of thanks. Scary movies were kind of his thing. He liked to see a scantily glad girl running away from a hideously incompetent killer; that probably said something terrible about his psyche, but he liked to think he was in it for the cheap thrill.

And this one was destined not to disappoint. Within the first ten minutes, Yohji had picked out the main character (blonde hair, big tits, and tiny little crop top) and the real killer (her too-loving boyfriend with the crew cut and letter jacket) and worked out most of the plot. Girl's parents leave, girl has party, teenagers get taken out one by one, and, yet girl survives but loses her trust (and her top) in the process. Content that he had hashed it out, Yohji leaned back on the couch to enjoy it. No thought required.

Except, it didn't quite go right. While normally he might have enjoyed the added twist, now Yohji cursed the writers for getting creative at the wrong damn time. Having lost two of her friends to the mystery psycho in the carnival mask, Ms. Big Tits decided to seek him out. Armed with a kitchen knife and her boyfriend's jacket, she wandered into a dimly lit building and, in very short order, was rendered unconscious. At this point, Yohji was intrigued, but the further it went, the more it fed growing sense of unease.

He glanced to Omi, sitting next to him on the couch, but the boy was engrossed in the show, a piece of popcorn suspended between his lips and the bowl. Hoping it wasn't going where he thought it was, Yohji turned back to the TV just in time to see the girl regain consciousness. Tied to a chair, she looked around frantically; the killer appeared, face hidden by the fathered, green mask. Stepping up to the struggling girl, he reached out to drag a gloved hand down her cheek.

"You're mine," the killer rasped, the surround-sound speakers projecting it deftly through the room.

Yohji shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Looking to Aya, he found the boy with a rather sick look on his face, one hand twisting around the other wrist. Another glance at Omi revealed that he had the blonde's attention this time. Omi made a gesture to the TV, silently offering to shut it off. About to agree, Yohji reconsidered. Aya had seemed so at peace, earlier, so content to simply be a part of their group; the incident with the pizza had put a serious damper on that reserved excitement, and to be singled out again, to be the reason the night ended on a bad note, well, Yohji didn't think it would be good. Still, he couldn't very well sit there and let Aya suffer through what was clearly going to be an unpleasant reminder.

A look at the screen reinforced this; the killer had pushed up his mask, tilting back the girl's head so he could forcibly kiss her. There was a little noise from Aya, a gasp or whine, quickly suppressed behind what Yohji thought were tightly clenched teeth.

Slipping quietly from the couch, Yohji scooted over until he sat on the floor in front of Aya's chair with his back resting against it. Cautiously, he touched Aya's arm; the boy jumped, and Yohji withdrew his hand like it burned. When Aya looked at him, Yohji could see his unease clearly, even in the dim light of the room. He patted the carpet next to him, and after a second of hesitation, Aya slid from the chair to sit next to him on the floor.

A few inches separated them, and Yohji was going to let it stay that way until the girl screamed. Aya went stiff, wide violet eyes glued to the screen as the girl was freed from the chair and shoved to the ground. She began to beg. Yohji leaned forward to look at Aya's face and saw the horror reflected in his eyes; his face was still, emotionless, but the eyes were terrible. He didn't know if the redhead was watching or remembering but that look, the pure terror of it was enough to push him into action.

He grabbed Aya around the waist, a move he immediately realized to be the beginning of a very bad plan. Aya was tense, scared, resisting him for a moment then collapsing, limp as Yohji drug him against his side. Unable to tell what Aya was thinking, but realizing the boy was far from comforted, Yohji tried to talk to him quietly.

"It's okay," he whispered, his lips close to Aya's ear as the boy leaned against his side, one of Yohji's arms around his waist and the blonde's free hand gently rubbing his hair. "You don't have to watch."

The girl pleaded, begging the killer to leave her alone; he ripped off her top. There was no thrill in it for Yohji; he held tight to the trembling figure in his arms, drawing Aya even closer to his side. With a gentle touch to the boy's cheek, he directed him to turn away, to look at Yohji instead of the television. Aya obeyed easily, and when the girl screamed again, he ducked his head under Yohji's chin and tangled his hands in the older man's shirt.

Yohji held him tightly, resting his own head against Aya's. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feel of Aya in his arms, the shaking, the fast-beating heart, and the uneven breathing; it wasn't an all out panic attack, but left alone any longer and it would have been. He didn't want to think it, but the thought pressed itself on him: if a movie scared Aya this badly, how were they ever going to make him into a killer?

Forcibly, he shoved the question aside, hugging Aya closer. He could feel Omi and Ken watching them but he held on, waiting for what he didn't know.

"Look, Aya," Omi said suddenly.

Yohji looked, and with a gentle touch to his arm, Aya lifted his head to see.

"They got him," Omi gestured to the screen with an unsure smile. The girl was being coddled by the police, the guy led away in cuffs.

"See?" Yohji asked. Aya nodded slowly, still a thousand miles away. Carefully, Yohji removed the slender hands from his shirt and held them in his own as he looked Aya in the eyes. "It's just a movie."

Suddenly the distant, half-scared look was gone, replaced by that completely indifferent blankness.

"I know."

And though he didn't say it, gave absolutely no sign of it, Yohji couldn't help but think Aya was pissed at him.

~tbc~

If you review, the slug will share his pudding.


	56. Touch Me

Chapter Fifty-Six: Touch Me

* * *

For the next twenty-four hours he suffered through the rote responses and infuriating distance. By the next afternoon, Yohji was starting to think it was Aya's way of punishing him for saying something stupid.

He had been trying to help, but apparently Aya thought he was talking down to him. Of course, the boy was hardly likely to tell Yohji off for it, and so they returned to that stiff, formal interaction that set the blonde's nerves on edge. He had been grumpy all day, and when he sent Aya to their room to get a moment away, it only frustrated him further since he couldn't help worry about what they redhead was doing there. His frustration culminated when, coming into their room to get the boy ready to go, Yohji found him sitting on the floor.

"Stop it," he said, not too nicely, as he stood in the doorway. It infuriated him that Aya would just wipe away all their work over a single, stupid comment.

Now he looked at the floor, staring at the rug, silent.

Stalking over, Yohji dropped to one knee in front of him, barely resisting the urge to grab him.

"You are just the king of fucking passive aggressive behavior, you know that?"

Still looking down, Aya nodded, whispering, "Yes, Yohji."

"Don't fucking 'Yes, Yohji' me."

Nothing. He wasn't even looking up. Yohji reached a hand, intent on tipping up his face, but the moment it was in the air, Aya cringed.

He stopped, immediately lowering his hand and wondering what the hell was going on. Something was off.

"You thought I was gonna hit you," he said, surprised. "I thought…I'm not gonna hurt you, Aya. We've been through this."

"Yes, Yohji," he spoke very quietly, like the words were hard to get out.

"What's the matter?"

Aya shook his head no.

"What's that mean? Why do you think I'm gonna hit you?"

"I…I'm sorry," and then quickly, "I'm sorry for touching you without permission, Yohji."

"What?" There was a fleeting memory of Aya grabbing him in a moment of panic, but in Yohji's mind the interaction had been mutual. "Aya, it's fine. Why would I be mad at you for that?"

* * *

_Sharp pain shot down his side as he drug himself to his knees, trying to brace with his arms as he breathed through his mouth. His nose was bleeding, and red dripped onto the wood floor. He watched it as he breathed, trying to gather his strength._

"_Up!"_

_Getting his feet underneath him, Aya pushed himself up off the floor. He was careful to keep his eyes down, but his head swam with the motion and the pain increased. He wasn't sure if he was going to pass out or throw up as he swayed unsteadily._

"_Slow," Crawford accused, the word followed by the heavy hit of the metal pole across his sore back. He hated the pole, an odd, two-foot length of steel that Crawford wielded with uncanny strength. As it landed again, he sucked in a breath, choking as blood went down his throat. Aya felt his knees tremble and tried to lock them to keep himself upright. It was a failing effort, his emaciated, injured frame refusing to support him. He pitched forward, knowing the punishment for falling, trying desperately to find anything to prevent it. He searching fingers found Crawford arm by mistake, and though the hold was fleeting, he knew, even as he landed hard on the ground, that it was done._

_The pole landed against his aching side._

"_You don't touch me without my permission," Crawford stated, cold as ice as he loomed over Aya. "I will tell you when you touch me."_

_There was pain, again, and he thought he had been hit. It was getting hard to tell. He tried to curl up, to protect himself, but it was futile._

"_A lesson, Ran. Up. Up!"_

_Another hit, across his back, making him cough He heard the clatter as the pole was tossed aside, but there was no comfort in the sound as he was yanked up to his knees. Crawford tugged on his arms, drawing them behind his back and cuffing them there with restraints only recently removed. Now, though, they were tighter._

_Opening his eyes, Aya saw only white. It took him only a second to realize it was Crawford's suit, the man standing in front of him as he knelt._

"_Pleasure me, Ran."_

_Instinctively, he tugged at the restraints._

"_No, not with your hands."

* * *

_

"Aya, look at me. Why would I be mad at you for that?"

"…my Master, he…" The boy shook his head, finding no words.

Yohji swallowed hard, and he felt like he was trudging into enemy territory, "He hurt you?"

Nothing.

"Did he hurt you when you touched him?"

Again, there was nothing as Aya stared at the rug.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

No, he didn't.

"Okay," Yohji sat back on the floor, trying to gather his thoughts and decide on a direction. "That's okay. But, hey, I'm not him." He barely resisted the 'remember' that wasn't going to help anything. "I thought you were mad at me."

He waited, unsure what else to say. Then, slowly, Aya lifted his head to look at him.

"I was," he said so softly Yohji had to strain to hear it.

Yohji scratched his head, literally, desperately trying to figure out how Aya being mad translated into his being scared of being punished. Somehow that anger had turned inward, probably because the kid was too afraid of saying anything, at least until now. Maybe it wasn't such a step backwards after all, if Aya was talking about his feelings, at least a little. Suddenly, Yohji had the irrational urge to pick up a clipboard, plop Aya on a couch, and ask him how various things made him feel.

"Why?" he asked instead, already knowing the answer. He had already spent a day regretting his words that, obviously (at least in retrospect), had been an insult; Aya hadn't been scared of the movie.

"I'm—"

"Please don't say you're sorry. It's okay that you were mad at me; it was kind of a stupid thing to say. I _was_ trying to help, though."

Aya nodded, looking at him with a slightly curious expression.

"And for the record, it would be a hell of a lot easier if you would tell me when you're upset."

* * *

Yohji watched Aya disappear into the dojo, looking far more independent than he really was. Who would guess, looking at the young man with the straight posture and weapons over his shoulder, that he had someone waiting in the car for him like he was five. Yohji shook his head, not sure what to make of his own thought. He wasn't mad, not anymore, but he felt more than a little lost after his conversation with Aya.

The fact that it had been, in many ways, an actual conversation marked it as progress. But his initial, angry comment hadn't been too far off; he just hadn't realized to what extent it was true. Aya was passive aggressive, in an extreme way. It had to be linked to whatever 'training' his 'master' had put him through, not allowing healthy expression of, Yohji suspected, anything. So he turned it on himself to the point of taking blame, of suspecting Yohji of anger that was really his own. Hell, his habit of scratching himself was probably the same damn thing.

Not for the first time, Yohji wished he had learned more about psychology, but he had to work with what he had.

Aya needed to learn to be expressive, assertive. Resolved as to his next goal, though having no idea how to accomplish it, Yohji pulled out of the parking lot and went across the street to wait.

* * *

"The katana, please."

Aya nodded. As he lifted the heavy blade in his hands, he tried to put everything else aside. He didn't need to think about Yohji, about Schuldig, about the hundred other concerns that constantly plagued him. He focused his attention on the sword; all that mattered was his ability to wield it. The reasons didn't matter.

"Leave the scabbard."

He did.

"You'll use both hands, for now, but in battle it will be more efficient if you can control it with one."

Aya nodded, coming to stand in the middle of the room. The wood was solid beneath his bare feet, the katana hard in his hands. He straightened his shoulders and looked up at his teacher. There were no questions with Sato, and no playing games. The man said, outright, that he would teach Aya to defend himself, and to kill.

~tbc~


	57. Trick Me

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Trick Me

* * *

Yohji had mused over the problem for several days and finally decided that any action was better than none. So, with only a vaguely developed plan of getting Aya to just say the word no, he sat the boy down at the kitchen table and, having located an ashtray he was fairly sure he would need, started an uncomfortable conversation.

"I want you to do something for me."

Aya looked at him with trepidation that didn't go further than his eyes, and while it was unpleasant, it was bearable.

"Actually, it's for both of us," he corrected, lighting up his first cigarette as he watched the other. "You've got to learn to tell people things. Like when you need something, or want something, or when you're upset. I want you to tell me this stuff. I'm not gonna be mad at you, okay?"

"Yes, Yohji."

He wasn't too sure how true that was, considering his recent track record with temper and Aya, but he would try, and making a wishy washy statement wasn't the way to convince anyone.

"I'm gonna ask you a question, and you try to answer. That simple."

He drew hard on the cigarette, relishing the momentary pleasure of nicotine; after second, he exhaled and tried to think of something simple to start with. All in all, he had very limited knowledge of the boy in front of him, so, in order to get the words he wanted, he searched his brain for questions he already knew the answers to. Suddenly struck with an idea, he rested his smoke on the edge of the glass ashtray and got up to dig in the fridge. Coming up with an onion, he sat down, and placed it resolutely between them.

"Do you like onions?"

Aya hesitated, looking for Yohji to the onion and then to his hands. Finally, he shook his head, no.

"Try to say it, Aya."

"I don't like it," he said without much hesitation. Still, Yohji noted the absence of the word 'no.'

"Do you like to read?"

"Yes."

"Do you like working in the greenhouse?"

"Yes."

"Do you like working in the shop when the girls are there?"

"I don't like that," he said. He looked vaguely bored by the process.

Brilliant plan circumnavigated, Yohji paused to take another drag off his cigarette. Tricking Aya into saying it might not have been the best idea, but he had honestly thought it might work. He was beginning to think, though, that Aya might be more savvy than he let on.

"Ask me a question," he said, trying to deviate from the pattern, maybe catch the redhead off guard.

Aya blinked at him, confused, cautious.

"Anything. Whatever you want to know," he added, leaning back in his chair and snubbing out his cigarette.

It took almost a minute, but finally Aya spoke, his voice level and almost sure, "Why do people call you Balinese?"

"Eh? That's my code name, for work. It's a cat."

Aya seemed to think about that for a while, then, "Why are you named after a cat?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe Persia reads Cat Fancy."

"Persia?"

"The boss. He chooses our missions."

"Missions," Aya repeated the word quietly.

"Yeah. I guess we haven't talked a lot about that have we?" He lit another cigarette, hesitated, then offered it to Aya. The boy looked at it and then shook his head. "You ever smoked?"

Again he shook his head.

"Can you say it, Aya? Can you say no?"

"Of course," he bit out, turning his head away. Yohji hadn't expected the tinge of anger in his voice, but it wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

"Then why don't you? Why don't you tell me no?" he questioned, leaning forward. "Are you scared?"

"Yes! Okay?" he yelled, turning suddenly back on Yohji to stare at him, eyes burning with that defiance he had seen the first time Aya had been mad at him. "If he finds out that I said that to you, he'll hurt her! I can't…" There was a small hitch in his breath and the anger left as quickly as it had come. Slumping in the chair, the redhead hid his face with his hands. "I can't."

Yohji reached to comfort, laying a hand on Aya's thin shoulder and relieved that the boy didn't pull away. "It's okay. You don't have to."

"I'm sorry, Yohji," he whispered, dropping his hands to his lap. He wasn't crying as Yohji had suspected, but there was a look of complete dejection, "I'm sorry."

* * *

"He wants you to come inside, Yohji," Aya told him.

It was already Friday, and having been excluded from Aya's training for over a week, Yohji was almost relived at the request. Of course, it meant seeing Sato, so he had serious doubts that his relief would last very long. Still, he turned off the car and followed Aya back into the dojo.

Sato stood by the wall wearing a black suit of kendo armor. The helmet was in his hand, and as they entered, he reached up to loose his dark hair from the cloth on his head; it fell, straight and slightly damp, over his shoulders. Shaking out the cloth, he tucked it in the helmet and set both against the wall near his sword. It was, Yohji noted, not a practice sword of wood, but rather full length katana.

Seemingly oblivious to their presence (though Yohji was under no delusions that this was actually the case), Sato made efficient but not hurried work of removing his armor, unstrapping it from around himself and setting it against the wall. Yohji wanted to ask Aya if he had been wearing the same (certainly the odd way his hair pressed against his head suggested it), but there was some sort of enforced silence in the room. It made him nervous and tempted him to yell at Sato to hurry his ass up.

For Aya's sake, he didn't. And finally, the instructor approached them. He looked tired, Yohji thought, and it occurred to him for the first time that training Aya probably made for long days for the other man. There was slight pleasure at that, that someone else was sharing his strain.

There were no pleasantries, and Sato launched immediately into what he had to say, speaking clearly in the authoritative, deep voice that while smooth, might as well have been sandpaper to Yohji's nerves.

"He's doing well. Significantly ahead of schedule. He's ready for additional training. I understand that the members of your team are all trained in weaponry; spar with him—"

"Already? It's only been two weeks." Yohji nearly shuddered at the idea of coming at Aya with his wire. The boy was still too frail, too tender.

"He was not in need of remedial training; it's a matter of stamina, for the most part, and adjusting to actual combat. He needs to eat more to gain muscle, but that will take time. Now he needs the experience of defending against other weapons besides a sword, and I can only do so much. Practice with him. Also, he should be trained in hand to hand combat; he might not always have a weapon."

To this Yohji could only nod, still stuck on the idea that Sato actually wanted Aya to engage in combat, even feigned, with the members of Weiss. The boy was just managing to look at them!

"Don't underestimate him," he said. When he turned away, it was clear they were dismissed.

* * *

Yohji watched Aya carefully gather the noodles between his chopsticks. It was a little after eleven, and, like most nights, they were sitting in the cheap family restaurant they had discovered on the way home over a week ago. Though it was late, Yohji always went willingly, having discovered that Aya ate the most right after his lessons. The first week he had consistently looked as if he might fall into his food at any moment, but at the end of the second, Yohji could see a marked improvement.

While there was a certain slowness about his movements that betrayed weariness, Aya appeared generally alert. He ate with as much enthusiasm as Yohji had ever seem him display, always neat and tidy but without the delay between bites, and drank a full glass of water. Yohji had offered to get him a soda on more than one occasion, but Aya always declined. Cold soba noodles and water, every time.

Not one to eat at night, Yohji always ordered something just to keep Aya at ease. He was happy just to have black coffee, but he picked at the salad in front of him as he tried to make conversation. It was getting easier, in tiny, tiny increments. And, like the eating, Aya was most open to conversation after his lessons.

"So, you're using the sword now?"

Aya nodded, his mouth full.

"When'd you start that?"

He swallowed, then, "Last week."

"Quick. You fight each other, in that armor stuff?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

"Who wins?"

"He does. Almost always."

There was something almost pleased lingering about Aya's expression as he said this, a slight, very slight, upturning at the corner of his lips, but it disappeared, even as Yohji noticed it, and the lips were schooled once more into careful neutrality.

~tbc~

The slug says if you review, he'll give you a very special Christmas present…he's smiling quite oddly…


	58. Test Me

Notes: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this! I know I say this all the time, but I do appreciate those of you who take the time to review or message me. And look, we're finally getting plot! Yay! Now, just gotta stay motivated.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Test Me

* * *

He flipped the cell phone closed, dissatisfied with the click it made. It would have been much more satisfying to slam something down. Instead, he put the phone back into his pocket and, affecting an ease he wasn't feeling, leaned back against the large desk to look at his companion.

Staring intently at him, Farfarello smiled, an eerie, vengeful expression, "We can go?"

Schuldig shook his head, "Not until he gets back."

"He's angry. With you."

It was nothing new, Schuldig thought, as he picked at his nails. Bradley was constantly angry with him. Still, this time he might have overstepped the limits of the man's patience. It was a relief, in some ways, that Crawford needed him for his powers, otherwise he would probably already be dead.

"He's angry for what you did."

"He doesn't know what I did."

"He will."

* * *

"I don't feel good about this," Ken complained. Standing in the middle of the downstairs gym, he flexed his hands experimentally, obviously not used to the practice weaponry. It was something Omi had had made before, but generally disappointed with it, Ken hadn't bothered much with the wooden version of his bugnuck blades. They were permanently extended, and it felt strange. He didn't like it, and he didn't like what Yohji wanted him to do.

Not that the blonde looked excited over the situation. Leaning against the wall, he looked sullen, sunglasses drawn over his eyes. Beside him Omi fidgeted, having failed to convince everyone that this could wait.

"I don't like it," he said again, hoping for reprieve.

"Ken," Yohji warned, voice colder than usual.

"Be careful," Omi requested. He bit nervously at his lip as he looked from Ken to Aya and back again.

The redhead looked thin in his black track pants and white t-shirt, long arms unusually exposed as they lifted the bokken in front of him. His stance was firm and his expression blank. Ken wished Aya had worn some protective gear and hoped he could keep himself from hitting too hard.

"Ready?" he asked, nervously lifting his right hand and settling his balance.

Aya nodded, and his hold on the sword strengthened.

"Go!"

Ken leapt forward, hand raised with the intention of striking Aya's shoulder, but the boy turned with surprising speed, and for half a second, Ken thought he was trying to protect himself by presenting his back, but then his hand met sudden resistance. It took him another second to realize Aya had shifted his stance to catch his blades on the edge of the wooden sword; the handle of the bokken was lifted, the blade down, and Aya shoved, intending to send him backwards. The force was stronger than he expected, though not enough to truly accomplish the task; Ken had enough weight on Aya to be difficult to move, but he relented and jumped back.

It took less than moment to regain his footing, then he went again. Aya was already facing him again, bokken leveled in a basic defensive stance, ready against anything. Ken went to the left this time, aiming low. Again, Aya deflected the blow, knocking Ken's hand up and away. The blow stung, but it was nothing serious. Following through, Ken turned and went with his right hand, straight on, more a punch than a sweeping strike Aya ducked, and Ken realized he had left himself open; he expected the redhead to hit his legs, maybe his side, to take him down.

But nothing happened; he turned to find Aya at the ready again.

"Fight back!" Yohji called from the sidelines. "You can't just defend."

"You're not going to hurt Ken-kun," Omi added. Ken silently thanked him, rather sarcastically, for the vote of confidence. A few minutes before he would have thought it was true, but there was something in Aya's movements, the speed, the grace, that suggested that he might be a formidable opponent. Ken shook off the feeling, brining to mind the image of the boy that had stood in their kitchen three weeks ago. Aya couldn't hurt him; all Ken had to worry about was not doing the same.

Again they faced each other. Aya's stance was the same, bokken raised along the middle line of his body, arms straight. Then, just as Ken moved, he shifted, not in response this time, but rather in action. Ken's right hook passed over his head as he ducked and turned, coming up behind the brunette just before he got his balance back. Ken felt the blow against his back, obviously checked at the last second and barely hard enough to bruise. Surprised, he turned to look at Aya. The boy looked back, nothing on his face, but with something different in his eyes. It made Ken cold to look at it.

"Good job, Aya-kun!" Omi encouraged.

Deciding he had been too easy on the kid, Ken decided to even the score. Again he swept in with his right hand, and as expected, Aya caught the weapon with his sword the same as before. Now though, he brought up his free hand; Aya saw the move coming; he dodged, but it was awkward, his bokken still caught up with Ken's blades. Ken tried the left again, but now Aya had gotten loose and met his hands, expertly contacting with his wrist before the hit could land.

Had the sword been real, he would have lost a hand.

Pushing off the wall, Yohji shoved his sunglasses up to watch.

Ken got out of range before Aya could hit him again, and took a second to think. Aya was set up again, watching him with that chilling look, his eyes narrowed with something more than concentration.

Ignoring the shiver that ran down his spine, Ken went for it, straight down the middle, intending a blow to the gut. Aya lifted the sword, and it was hard to say who was quicker. Just as his fist contacted with Aya's middle, the hard edge of the wooden sword landed on his shoulder.

"That's enough!" Yohji called, rushing over to Aya.

Backing off, Ken prayed he hadn't hurt the boy. He had been caught up in it. About to apologize, he caught Aya's eyes again; this time there was definite satisfaction in that cold fire. Dropping his gaze, Ken stripped off his gloves. His shoulder stung, and he found he liked Aya better for it.

"Let's do it again sometime," he smiled. The boy, currently under Yohji's prodding investigation, nodded solemnly.

* * *

Aya watched Ken leave the gym, Omi following close behind him. He hadn't hit hard, and there was no way he had hurt the other. It was disappointing to see Ken pull his punches, and it served to reinforce the handicap of his situation. He had to get better.

"Okay?" Yohji questioned. The blonde was standing close, tugging up Aya's t-shirt to run a warm hand over the other's belly. He prodded it gently, and Aya wished he would stop. The hit had made him feel a bit sick, and Yohji's poking wasn't helping. "Aya, okay?"

"Yes," he answered, trying to shake off the fight. It was always like that when he fought a match, his concentration masking the rest of the world, letting him focus on his opponent. It had been a relief when it returned the week before in practice, helping him summon his energy and face Sato with all he had, as meager as that currently was.

"Are you sure?" Yohji was looking at his eyes now.

"I'm fine."

There must have been something different in his voice, and Aya only belatedly realized it had shed its subdued quality. Quickly putting himself in check, he tried again, "Yes, Yohji."

~tbc~

The slug has left you a present. It's a Schuldig…and he seems to be rather naked, except for that one, big bow there…you might want to untie that carefully. Review?


	59. Tempt Me

Notes: Short chapter this time, but I'm revising two more, so there'll be more soon!

* * *

Chapter Fifty-Nine: Tempt Me

* * *

Oh, god, he had not meant for it to be this way.

Leaning over Aya, Yohji was sure, more sure than he had ever been, that there was something seriously wrong with him. Omi was right, he was a pervert.

But Aya was…

Leaning back against the wall, Aya's head was back, eyes closed. The collar was dark around his neck, and one of his hands held onto it almost unconsciously. Yohji had pulled off his shirt, checking for injuries, worried even if Aya said he was fine. He had pressed Aya back, ran his fingers over that pallid skin, not so dry anymore, not so damaged. He had been checking, but somehow the moment had slipped. Now Aya was before him, pants untied and pushed low so Yohji could check the one place he had actually taken a hit; there was a bruise already forming low on his belly, and Yohji's hand brushed, again, over the area, lingering, getting a little too low. There was a sharp intake of breath, and he pulled back. Purple eyes stared at him, anxious, worried.

Yohji stared back, caught.

Fuck, he was in trouble.

Breaking the tension with a smile, he straightened and ran a hand through his hair.

"All done," he said, voice tighter, lower than it had any right to be. He turned away when Aya straightened up, not wanting to see him tie the pants. There was a shuddering breath from behind him, and it fueled his guilt. Nothing had happened, but even now he could feel desire curling low in his stomach, threatening.

He left the room without waiting for Aya.

* * *

Yohji dropped his head back, hard, against the brick wall of the alley.

Just for an instant, when he had landed that hit, Aya had stopped being the untouchable victim; Yohji had been too caught up in the red hair and purple eyes, the impossibly pale skin, the slender body that looked so capable. He had forgotten…

It was nothing, he told himself, again, drawing hard on his third cigarette. Slowly, he exhaled, watching the smoke curl up towards the late afternoon sky. It was nothing, a fluke, a mishap fueled by frustration. He hadn't been out in weeks. Hell, he barely had time to jack off, especially when Aya shared a bed with him.

It had nothing to do with the boy. He was still too fragile, too vulnerable to bear the weight of Yohji's passion. Not to mention it was wrong. Not many things qualified as wrong in Yohji's book, but fucking someone you were trying to help, taking advantage, did. But it hadn't been Aya that made his body react, his mind slip into that hazy space of passionate potential. It was desperation forcing itself on the nearest body.

Right.

Dropping the finished cigarette to the ground, he pulled another from the pack.

* * *

Aya hurried to pull his t-shirt back over his head. He sat against the wall, wrapped his arms around himself and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm the sudden flurry of fear that had surged up within him. The way Yohji had touched him and the look in his eyes, they had been hungry, like Schuldig's only without the cruel element of play.

For an instant, he had thought he felt himself react strangely to that hunger, but it was subsumed, almost instantly by the fear. The collar was heavy on his neck, a constant reminder that should Yohji choose to have him, to hurt him, there would be nothing he could do.

But he didn't.

Yohji didn't hurt him, didn't want to hurt him. There was no joyful reaction to his fear, no provoking words or punishing blows. Yohji was helping him. Initially Aya had doubted every word of what the blonde told him, analyzed and evaluated and dismissed his promises. But Yohji had proven true at every turn. Finally, he had put a sword back in Aya's hands; if Yohji intended to overpower him, he wouldn't have done that.

Maybe he had been mistaken, just now. He wasn't good at reading people. Yohji had made it clear that he didn't want to hurt him that way; he didn't get off on punishment and blood and pain. And what else was Aya good for?

Yes, he had been mistaken.

* * *

"Ready to go?" Yohji asked. Standing in the doorway, he held out Aya's long, white coat.

Setting aside the seed catalog, Aya uncurled himself from the leather chair and walked over. Yohji had expected awkwardness, hesitation, but Aya simply held out an arm, letting Yohji slip the coat over his shoulders. Settling it gently in place, Yohji reached to free the two long eartails from the collar.

~tbc~

Notes: The slug wonders if he might have a Christmas present in return…perhaps a review? Okay, so that's not what he really asked for, but I am _not_ repeating that!


	60. Thank Me

Notes: Three hundred reviews! You all are awesome. I've read and appreciated every one of them, and each review encourages me to see this through to the end. So, as a reward for your awesome reviewing, here is an extra-long chapter. Thank you all!

Chapter Warnings: some het sexual content, language (as always it seems)

* * *

Chapter Sixty: Thank Me

The week passed in a blur, his days full of work and taking care of Aya. The girls were beginning to talk since he had been turning down dates with so many eligible ladies over eighteen. They had developed a number of theories ranging from a bad case of the flu to true love to an unpleasant encounter with the clap; he was even rumored to be engaged. Assuring them that it was all nonsense, he made sure to flirt just a little more and to make a date with one Mayumi, a toned, tanned girl of twenty who had tits too fabulous to pass up. Her short skirt said she was easy, and easy was exactly what he needed.

In fact, as the week neared its end, Yohji found himself in desperate need of a good fuck. His mind had body had, apparently, suddenly decided to rebel against his newfound lifestyle of sporadic gratification. This alone was not a surprise, the fact that his brain had decided to fixate on Aya was.

While he had had the decency not to repeat the gym incident, he couldn't help but revel in the little contacts he made with the boy despite the guilt that followed. There were casual brushes of his arm as Yohji led him from one place to another, the hand he placed on the sweat-damp back as he walked Aya to the car after practice, the lingering hold of a hand when he cut the boy's nails back again. And Aya would look at him with those eyes, eyes deeper than they had any right to be, full of thoughts that he wasn't giving voice to. The mystery of those eyes lured Yohji in.

It had been happening all along, he realized, building in his subconscious, fueled by innocent contact and held at bay by the solid idea that he would break Aya if he tried anything.

But Aya was getting stronger, and the interest only grew, enough that his conscious mind finally had to notice the attraction.

No, not attraction, he amended. Fascination.

That's all.

He repeated this to himself for had to be the hundredth time as he wandered out to the greenhouse. The rush had passed, and it was time to fetch Aya back in. He usually got the other earlier, in enough time to help with the closing chores after the girls had left, but Aya had been eager to get to his plants, so Yohji left him with them as long as possible.

Poking his head the greenhouse door, he was met with heat and the earthy smell of potting soil. Since Aya had started watering the plants, the structure was gaining humidity too. The redhead stood by one of the long tables, carefully preparing yet another tray of seeds. There were at least forty of them now, lined up along the table, carefully grouped and marked by the seed packets that had fast become Aya's treasures.

Yohji came over to investigate the first of Aya's plantings. The tiniest bit of green was starting to show in one of the clay pots. "Shift's over."

Aya nodded, wiping his fingers on his apron. It was long and green, and though it clashed horribly with the orange sweater he was wearing, Yohji thought he had made the right choice; besides, Omi's box of aprons had contained only green or pink, and fuchsia was not going to do the Aya any favors.

After Yohji set the alarm, they walked together back to the shop. Ken was finishing the last of the sweeping, and Omi was counting the drawer. Yohji took off his apron and Aya quickly followed suit, revealing the orange sweater in all its horrid glory. It really was bad, Yohji thought, but Aya liked it because it was soft and big and hid the collar. And it made him look, well, sort of normal. Plus, the jeans were decent, fitted, showing the slender shape of his thighs. They would be better if Yohji could have talked him in to the black t-shirt. Aya didn't like to wear short sleeves, but maybe with something over it…

Caught up in his consideration of clothes, Yohji found Omi staring at him curiously.

"Huh?"

Omi sighed, "Pay day, Yohji-kun." Oh, well, that made sense, seeing as how Omi was trying to get him to take an envelope with money in it. The flower shop didn't do much more than break even, so their paychecks were never really anything of note, at least not when compared to their night job. However, with Kritiker's payments currently on hiatus, the forty thousand yen seemed a lot more attractive than it usually did. Not that any of them were hurting for money; even Yohji had managed to save a considerable sum, despite his attempt to drink it all.

Truth be told, he couldn't care less what his bank balance was. As long as there was money enough in his pocket to buy what he wanted. He didn't have a lot of hope in the future, so there wasn't much point shoring up for a backup plan that was never going to happen.

Yohji turned from these dark thoughts to watch Aya watching Omi who was trying to get him to take the envelope with his name on it. Aya wasn't making it easy as he stood and stared at thing like it was a bomb about to take his hand off. Reaching out, Yohji took it in his stead. Both parties seemed relieved.

* * *

Again Yohji set Aya at the table, now so that he could pull out the bills out of the envelope and put them in front of him.

"We'll get you a wallet or something. I think I've got an old one upstairs somewhere."

The boy just watched him.

"This is your paycheck, Aya, from working in the shop. You've had a job before?"

No, Aya shook his head. He reached a hand up to his hair, but when Yohji looked, he dropped it.

"You know how it works, though."

There was a slight narrowing of purple eyes, but Aya only nodded. Still, he made no move to take the money placed in front of him. Deciding it was too much, Yohji simplified. Picking up the bills, he divided them into four stacks of ten thousand yen each.

"Okay, so this much," he shuffled one stack to the side, "we give to Omi for rent and food and stuff."

Again, Aya nodded, apparently in a quiet mood. Yohji let it go, glad he was being generally agreeable.

"This much," he slid the second over, "goes to me for the sword. We'll do that a little at a time until you pay it off."

He didn't really care about the money, but it was important for Aya to realize the katana was his. Yohji would no more go into a mission with a borrowed weapon than with an unloaded gun. That was what kept you alive, and Aya needed to know that he had complete control over it.

"Shouldn't…I…I owe you more, for the other things," he suggested quietly.

Yohji waved it away, "Those were gifts. I just want the sword to be yours. Understand?"

Aya nodded again, then, as Yohji waited, said quietly, "Thank you…for the things. For…"

Yohji saw that it was hard for him, and having got the gist of it, was more than content with Aya's appreciation.

"You're welcome," he cut the boy off. "Now, for the good part. This much is yours to spend."

Aya looked at it with concentration. Left to his own devices, Yohji had no idea what the boy would do with the money. Hopefully, he wouldn't use it to buy a bus ticket. Yohji didn't think that would happen, but it wouldn't hurt to give him another direction.

"Come on, get your coat on."

* * *

The heavy wooden door swung inward, and Yohji held it open as he motioned Aya inside. Unsure, the boy stepped past him and into the warmth of the large store. It looked almost cozy despite its size, with light brown carpets and deep beige walls, setting off the rows of wooden shelves and well-placed comfortable chairs. At five-thirty, it was nearly empty save for a few customers browsing the shelves and one lone man drinking coffee at the small, open shop to the side.

For a moment, he just watched Aya, caught up in the way his long, white coat hugged his thin waist, so much like a woman's. And the hands, too, long and elegant as they clutched at one another in front of him, hinting at some emotion the boy was holding back. Purple eyes looked around, cautiously amazed, then finally returned to Yohji, interrupting his contemplation and making him more resolved in his task.

"Want to pick out a few things?" he asked, coming to stand close to Aya's side. The boy ducked his head, but it came back up almost instantly.

"Really?"

Yohji nodded, unable to suppress a smile at the reserved excitement; he had never seen Aya so…glad to be anywhere.

"You've got money now, so you can get what you want," he explained, just in case the other hadn't put two and two together. He had learned to be increasingly careful about those explanatory statements in the last week, Aya quick to read them as an insult to his mental ability, not that he said as much, but it was getting easier for Yohji to read the hints of aggravation.

Aya looked around, and again back at him, "Really?"

Yohji laughed softly. Aya had never questioned anything he had said, and yet twice in five minutes he had needed reassurance that Yohji really, really wanted him to get something he wanted. Suddenly, it made him a little sad as he wondered how long it had been since anyone even considered what Aya wanted.

"Yeah, really."

Having convinced Aya to lead the way, a thing he was obviously not comfortable with, Yohji followed him around the bookstore. It might have been boring, but Yohji found himself entertained by small things like the way Aya bit at his lower lip or the way he stared at the rows of books, his head tilted slightly to the side as if the angle helped him to read better. For a while, the boy only looked, hands tucked carefully close to his body as he passed in front of the shelves. Finally, he reached out to touch one of the covers, jerking instantly back.

"It's not gonna bite," Yohji offered.

"I know," Aya snapped quickly, then, "Sorry."

"It's okay," Yohji shook his head. The boy really had a temper, but it didn't bother him. Actually, it was a relief to see Aya defend himself. Stepping in close to Aya's side, he asked quietly, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Yohji," Aya replied, staring at his shoes. He reached up to tug on his hair. Gently, Yohji caught the hand; reaching past Aya, he picked up the book the boy had touched and put it in his hand. The redhead seemed stunned, for a second, then he flipped it over to read the back.

* * *

Aya was happy. Yohji was sure of it for the first time, and it made him almost giddy.

Sitting in the passenger seat of the Seven, Aya held the bag of books pressed closely to his chest, constantly looking into the open top like he was making sure they were real. After figuring out that Yohji was really going to let him buy them, he had been excited to be in the bookstore, going from one shelf to the other and reading book descriptions with wide, active eyes.

For a while, Yohji had been almost ignored, but once he asked a couple questions, he found Aya almost talkative. The boy was relaxed, a little distracted, and in a good mood; Yohji had found out not only what Aya liked to read, but also that he used to spend his allowance on books and that he used to write a little. That conversation had been cut off when Aya seemed to realize what he had said, but he still answered more innocuous questions.

They ended up with five books, though Yohji suspected Aya was showing a good amount of restraint with even that many. He had paid with his own money, hesitant in the interaction and stepping just a little closer to Yohji. The blonde had reached around him to get the change and receipt when Aya had tensed at the clerk's motions. Overall, though, it had gone better than Yohji could have expected.

Now, seeing Aya's obvious involvement, he wished he hadn't done it with an ulterior motive.

But Yohji needed out, for just a little while, and Aya having something else to do was going to let him escape.

Loathe to end the pleasant mood, but unable to put off the conversation much longer, he started in.

"Hey, after your lesson tonight, I'm going out for a while, okay?"

Aya was instantly tense, but he nodded.

"I talked to Omi, and he's just gonna be watching television tonight, so you'll have someone to stay with." Actually, he had bargained with Omi, trading an afternoon shift for a few hours of babysitting. He hadn't called it that, of course, not even behind Aya's back. "And you can read your books."

"Yes, Yohji," Aya said.

Yohji sighed, having completely deflated any excitement. He couldn't help it. He had to go, or he was going to give in and do something stupid. Aya was too pretty, even in his resignation.

* * *

Yohji had dressed while Aya was in the shower, sliding into clothes he had recently neglected. It felt good to tug the stonewashed jeans around his hips, belting them to hold the look barely on the side of decency. He added a sleeveless white crop top. It wasn't exactly date attire, but Mayumi wasn't going to mind. They weren't doing dinner and dancing, heading straight to a nearby club and then, hopefully quickly, back to her place.

His plans were almost derailed when Aya walked into the room. Dressed in his light blue pajamas, the ones that fell, the tiniest bit, off his shoulder and over his hands, he looked at Yohji. His hair was damp, clinging in long strands to his face which was flushed pink from a too-hot shower.

Yohji moved without thinking, stepping close to brush back one of those long eartails, letting his hand linger in the soft hair. Aya tipped his head slightly into the safe touch as his eyes closed. Just as his fingers made for the pale neck—

"You have to go?"

Yohji swallowed hard and stepped back, "Yeah. Come on."

* * *

He left Aya sitting in the living room chair, holding tightly to one of his new books, and watching every step Yohji took. He had made assurances, repeatedly, and garnered yet another promise from Omi not to leave the redhead until he was in bed. Aya was tired from his lesson, so hopefully it wouldn't be long, and he had something to occupy him.

It wouldn't be like last time.

Still, doubt nagged at his mind. As Mayumi met him at the club door, he wondered what Aya was doing. As she followed him inside, he wondered if Omi had fed Aya anything. And as he ordered drinks for both of them, he wondered if Aya was wondering where he was.

* * *

It was going to happen again.

Yohji had gone, and now they would come back.

Aya's stomach twisted into a hard knot as he sank back into the chair. He couldn't do anything to stop them. Schuldig would come, and now he would be punished for all the things he had forgotten. And if Crawford came…

Aya tried to stop himself from shaking, closing his fists hard and trying to focus on the pain as his nails bit into his palms.

Okay. He would be okay. Yohji had said that.

He trusted Yohji.

But the man was gone, and there were so many places they could be hiding. Maybe if Omi would turn on all the lights, then he could make sure that no one was in the corners or hiding behind the—

_You're being paranoid_, he told himself, _stop it_. _And breathe_.

If they were going to come, they would. There wasn't any point in being scared over it.

Resolved, but not quite able to stem the trembling of his hands, Aya picked up the novel he had gotten earlier that day. It was a strange, thick thing in his hands. He was fortunate that Yohji allowed him this. He was grateful for everything Yohji had done, and though he tried not to think about it, he couldn't help but wonder if the blonde really could help find Aya-chan.

He would give anything to see her again. Never again would he take for granted one moment in her presence. He would be a good brother. Yohji was helping him get stronger, and if he was good enough…if they found her…if…

No. He couldn't even think it.

Aya's life didn't work that way.

But Yohji said…

Shaking his head, Aya moved his focus forcibly to the pages of the book.

* * *

"C'mon, Yohji, dance with me," Mayumi tugged on his arm. She was getting anxious, one hand toying with the silver chain that hung around her neck, draped between her large breasts which were barely contained by the blue, spaghetti strap top. They were really nice, Yohji decided, and knocking back his forth shot of Crown, he turned to follow her onto the crowded dance floor.

She smiled widely at him and draped her tanned arms over his shoulders. He pulled her close, already swaying with the music, a steady, deep rhythm without words. She giggled when his hands went from her waist to her ass, gripping it through the denim miniskirt. It was good, but there was no thrill in it.

Closing his eyes, Yohji tried to give himself over to the sensations. He could feel the soft press of her body, the clinging strands of her long, dark hair as the caught on his cheek, the light scrape of her acrylic nails as they ran down his back. It wasn't doing anything for him. It should have, as frustrated as he had been and as long as he waited. Maybe he just needed another drink.

* * *

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Yohji?" Mayumi smiled over the rim of her pink cocktail. She had a pretty smile and pretty lips; they were full and tinted with pink gloss the same color as her drink.

"Not at all," Yohji assured, knocking back another shot of whiskey. They were sitting at the bar, and Yohji knew the bartender. So when he raised his hand for another, it was delivered in short order. Yohji was a regular and a good tipper.

* * *

Yohji leaned heavily back against the stone wall, hands clenching at nothing as his cock disappeared between those perfect lips. He tried to stay still as her tongue worked him, but it was almost impossible. He was so hard, and he just needed it. So he closed his eyes and grabbed her hair.

There was no hesitation, just one hand on his lean thigh and another at the base of his cock where it hung out of his open jeans, keeping him from going too far. He closed his eyes again and rode the sensations, now more intense. Hot and wet and exactly what he had been thinking about. Yohji wanted to last longer; he usually did, but he was more drunk than he wanted to be and decided that it didn't fucking matter. He was close, and when the mouth was taken away, he couldn't even think.

"What?" he breathed.

The hands were touching him, putting his hardon back into his tight pants with difficulty. No.

"No."

"Yes," a voice told him, patting the tight bulge affectionately. "Let's go back to—"

"Aya," he complained, the name on his lips before he realized it was in his head.

"What?"

He finally got his eyes open to see the person in front of him. Angry brown eyes met his. Brown, not purple.

"Asuka?"

His head turned with the force of the slap to his cheek.

"You bastard," the girl hissed. "You're so drunk you don't even know where your dick is. I can't believe you even got it up."

"I—"

"Save it. I'm out of here, you useless fuck."

She shoved him hard against the wall and walked away. Yohji watched, feeling confused and unsteady, sensations that concentrated in the throbbing between his legs.

Aya, he just needed to find Aya.

~tbc~

Review to get Yohji off this cliff. Please?


	61. Take Me

The chapter doesn't bode well, does it? Angst ahead, be warned.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-One: Take Me

* * *

Schuldig slipped into the driver's seat of the black Mercedes, less happy than he anticipated being. It had been so easy, just a tiny push to Balinese's addled brain. The idea had already been there, lurking behind walls of conscience; he hadn't expected that from Balinese. But they were easy to get around , especially since the idiot had drank himself into stupidity.

_Find Aya_. That's all it took.

Schuldig sighed. The kätzchen had been too happy, and it was beginning to make it difficult to get into his mind, not to mention Crawford was more than suspicious. If he hadn't done something, the precog was sure to handle it himself once he returned to Japan. Still, he wondered if it was worth it. Schuldig didn't like the idea of someone else handling his kätzchen, and he anxiously awaited the days when the redhead would be his alone. It wouldn't be about pain then, for either of them.

* * *

He kept one hand on doorframe to keep himself standing. The stairs had been a bitch, not to mention the five blocks he had stumbled through to make it home. Thank fuck he had walked, because Yohji had no delusions that he could have driven himself home without wrapping his car around something big and unpleasant.

He was drunk. Nothing new. What was new was the hardness between his legs that seemed undeterred by the massive amount of liquor he had managed to pour into his system. And no girl.

But it didn't matter, because he didn't want a girl. He wanted Aya.

Aya, with those long, thin fingers and that ghost-pale skin, with that soft hair and strange eyes that had so many shades of feeling.

He clung to the doorframe and looked.

Aya slept in the bed, their bed. He was on his side, and while there was nothing overtly sexy about the way he curled into the covers, Yohji could see one perfect hand resting on the pillow next to those pink lips. The lamp was on, and its light spilled over Aya's back, trying to shadow his face and illuminating the disarray of crimson hair.

Yohji wanted to fuck him.

But he couldn't. He knew that. Aya was hurt, and Yohji couldn't fuck him.

He was just going to lay down beside him. Aya never had to know. Not ever. He wouldn't wake up, would he, if Yohji just pressed up against him a little? He wouldn't care.

His cock was so hard it hurt. Fueled with thoughts of the boy in his bed. even the walk home hadn't flagged it. It was leaking in his pants, making the spot near the tip sticky and uncomfortable. It was ready to be next to Aya.

Yohji wanted to be silent, but it was hard. His feet didn't seem to want to use the stealth he knew they had and threatened to abandon him altogether as he took a few stumbling steps towards the bed. The lamp was on his side, and he blocked its light with his body as he stood there, looking.

Aya.

Gently, he lifted the covers away, shoving them awkwardly towards the foot of the bed. Aya stirred, shivering a little as he curled tighter into himself. Always cold. Yohji could warm him up.

Tugging his tight shirt over his head, he dropped it on the floor and climbed into bed wearing only his jeans and socks. Aya shifted as the mattress dipped, rising almost to awareness.

"Shh," Yohji soothed, letting his hand rest on one shoulder, so thin and delicate beneath the soft blue fabric. The familiar touch seemed to placate him, and opening eyes drifted shut. Yohji waited, tense. Aya couldn't be awake. He couldn't know.

Deciding that the boy was once again resting, Yohji laid down and snuggled close, wrapping his arm around Aya's chest as he pressed his crotch against the boy's ass. There was an instant of bliss before Aya started to struggle, providing brief, satisfying friction before he began to pull away.

"No," Yohji demanded, tightening his grip and yanking the boy back against him. Awake now, Aya fought harder.

"No!" Yohji hissed at him. Forcing Aya back onto the bed, Yohji rolled on top of him, pinning the other beneath him. He wasn't going to hurt him; Aya knew that. It was okay. With an elbow planted on either side of the other's head, Yohji closed his eyes and ground him hips against Aya's. The boy moved beneath him, enticing as he held tight to Yohji's shoulders, saying something.

"Shhh," Yohji said again, grabbing a handful of red hair to still the thrashing head.

"Stop," Aya said. But his hands were clutching at Yohji's shoulders, his lips moving against Yohji's cheek as the blonde leaned closer.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna stop," he promised, already half out of breath. Snaking his free hand between their bodies, Yohji fumbled with the fly of his jeans, freeing his cock to let it press hotly against Aya's flaccid member through the cloth of his pajamas. "Fuck, Aya."

The boy shook, trembling under his touches, and Yohji ground harder against him. He wouldn't have sex with him, but he needed this. He had done so damn much, and now he just need it. Moaning into Aya's hair, Yohji felt himself on the edge of orgasm. Aya was moving again.

"Stop it!" Yohji demanded, tightening the grip on Aya's hair, using his other hand to hold the boy's shoulder as he laid directly on top of him. Aya wasn't cold now.

There was a sudden wetness, and for a second, Yohji thought he had come. He stopped, raising himself up to investigate. There was a damp stain spreading on the front of Aya's pants. In that frozen second, the reality of the situation dawned on him, forcing its way into his fogged brain. The boy was so scared that he had pissed himself.

Eyes wide with realization, Yohji went to look up, maybe to comfort, only to find himself shoved suddenly off of Aya. The boy was off the bed before he could recover.

"Aya," he pleaded softly, for what he wasn't sure.

The boy turned back at the doorway, a look of trembling anger on his face, "I hate you!"

And then he was gone. Yohji heard a door slam in the hall.

Oh shit.

He had—

God damn it.

Yohji levered himself from the bed, swaying as he gained his feet. He forced the jeans from his legs, ignoring the demanding hardon that was suddenly a whole lot less important.

"Shit," he swore aloud as he kicked his pants and socks away. He had to find Aya, to tell him that he wasn't going to hurt him.

Stumbling naked into the hallway, Yohji kept a hand on the wall to steady himself. It was dark, but a light shone from under the bathroom door, so he went to it, sure Aya was inside. He tried the doorknob, and it rattled beneath his hand and refused to turn, locked.

Leaning on the door, Yohji rested his forehead against the rough wood.

"Aya," he moaned, "Aya."

There wasn't an answer. Yohji pounded on the door with his fist.

"Please, Aya!"

No answer, only a soft shuffling.

"Aya…I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'm drunk," his voice trailed off, "I'm drunk."

He waited there for a long time, but Aya never opened the door. So Yohji went away.

Aya knew Yohji wouldn't hurt him. He knew.

Yohji's head ached and his cock hurt. He would go to bed and talk to Aya in the morning. He was drunk, anyway.

Back in his room, Yohji peeled away the sheets with disgust, dumping them on the floor. Turning off the lamp, he laid down on the bare mattress. Rolling to his side, he took half-hearted hold of his erection but managed only a few distracted strokes before passing out.

~tbc~

Notes: Punishments for Schuldig or Yohji may be left in the form of reviews.


	62. Trap Me

Notes: Another chapter short on words and high on angst.

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Two: Trap Me

* * *

Huddled against the bathtub with his back to the wall, Aya listened to Yohji beat on the door. With each knock he drew further and further in on himself, tucking his thin legs against his chest and pressing his forehead against his knees. His arms were wrapped tightly around his belly, fingers gripping the opposite sides of his pajamas, and he looked like he was trying to hold himself together.

There was terror, full and rampant. It made his blood run loud in his ears and made it impossible to think. Yohji would get through the door, any second, he knew. Aya waited on the edge of hysteria, sure his owner would come, waiting for the rough hands and hot pain, knowing it would sear deeper for all the kindness he had been shown. He heard Yohji speak, but the sense of the words didn't reach him.

Crawford had spoken, too. He had thrown Aya down and beaten and raped him, and Aya had endured it. He couldn't take this.

"I can't," he whispered miserably, barely a sound passing through his lips. "I can't."

Aya didn't know how long he sat in the dark room before the terror ebbed away. It left silence in its wake, and he listened closely, hearing nothing beyond his own shallow breathing. After a while, this started to even out, and the physical reality of his situation began to soak into his consciousness.

It was dark, and he didn't like it. Then again, it didn't bring the fear that it had. What was in the dark? Yohji was outside the door, or he had been. He was out there, waiting to do _that_. Out there was pain, and inside?

A harsh, short laugh broke out of him.

He felt the panic creeping forward and shoved it back.

He was pathetic. Huddled in a dark room like a child, half scared of the dark and near tears. He was cold, and his body ached from staying in the cramped position. His head hurt, and his pajamas clung wetly to his thighs.

He was ashamed.

Before, at least he had met his punishment with something like honor. Rarely had he cowered away, and never had he run. It was another dishonor, another act to disgrace him and his family.

What did it matter? He wasn't a man, not anymore. Not ever. If he had ever had a chance at being one, it was dashed when he took that collar and wrapped it around his own neck. He should have used it to hang himself.

Another uncomfortable laugh.

Slowly, he unfolded himself, reveling in the pins and needles feeling that attacked his limbs as the bloodflow returned. When he felt slightly more in control of them, he stood and groped around for the light. When his hand found the switch, he turned on the lights, washing the small space in fluorescent illumination.

He stood by the sink, staring in the mirror, glaring at the pitiful thing that stared back at him.

How he hated what he had become.

Yohji had been a momentary reprieve. He had offered Aya a glimmer of hope that someone saw him as more than an object to be used. Often he wondered if he even was more, and he had been less and less sure until Yohji had saved him. But it was false. All of it was lie, and Yohji saw nothing but a body to fuck once he had molded it to his liking.

Dropping his gaze to the sink, Aya saw the random assortment of bottles and tubes and there, near the corner, a blue plastic razor. He grabbed it without thinking, lifting it up and banging it down, hard, on the edge of the vanity. It shattered, sending a spray of plastic shards in all directions. Picking up the battered head, he drew out one of the thin razor blades, holding it carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He looked at it hard, then, setting down the blade, shoved up the left sleeve of his pajama top.

There were bandages there, leftovers that didn't cover any serious wounds. Yohji liked to leave them, said they would help Aya remember not to scratch himself, not to hurt himself. Now Aya wore a hard expression as he loosened the end and unwound the long strip of white cotton.

~tbc~

Review to comfort Aya? Or to berate Yohji…either way.


	63. Grasp Me

Notes: A long chapter this time!

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Three: Grasp Me

* * *

"Get up! Yohji, get the hell up!"

Shaken roughly from his sleep, Yohji felt his head and stomach protest loudly and wondered if throwing up all over Ken would be a suitable revenge for the disturbance.

"Yohji! Get your clothes on and come help us—it's Aya!"

The shaking hadn't stopped, but Yohji's thoughts did a one-eighty. There was something wrong with Aya.

Getting his head off the mattress, he looked at Ken. The brunette withdrew his hand and turned away, but it was only to grab Yohji's sweatpants from the floor and fling them at his face.

Sitting up, he held the pants in his lap as he asked, "What's the matter?"

"Just come on," Ken pleaded, apparently looking around for a shirt. He grabbed the one Yohji had been wearing the night before, but after a second look, he tossed it aside and turned back to the blonde who was still sitting a little stupidly on the bed.

Yohji was finding it difficult to get up, more difficult than it had been in the last few weeks, anyway. His head ached and his stomach was still debating whether or not to force him to rush to the toilet. His mouth was dry with an awful taste that told him clearly he had been drinking. A lot. Still, he drug himself from the bed, sparing a thought for the odd condition of the thing, bare of all sheets and even the mattress cover. And he was naked.

Dropping his hand onto Ken's shoulder, he steadied himself enough to get the navy pants, working the elastic top over his hips with one hand. That finished and a bit of his balance restored, he used both hands to push the tangled mess of his hair back from his face before scrubbing it roughly.

Ken seemed anxious, and Yohji asked again, "What's going on?"

Instead of answering, the other went to the door, silently telling Yohji to get a move on as he looked back nervously. It wasn't like Ken to get worked up over nothing, and the initial concern Yohji had felt returned tenfold when he noticed the uneasy shifting of the brunette's feet.

"Ken," he tried again, "What's happening?"

"Just get downstairs."

Brushing by the younger man, Yohji took the stairs two at time without regard for his miserable condition. When he hit the ground floor, he looked around almost frantically, trying to figure out where to go. There was some sound from the living room, but by then Ken was behind him, a hand latched onto his arm as the other towed him quickly into the room.

At first he couldn't place what was amiss. The TV's blank face reflected his own, and the only light was the dim sun of the rainy morning that filtered between the open curtains. The couch was empty, normal, but the large chair had been pushed aside, sitting too close to the low coffee table at an odd angle. When Ken pulled him another step forward, he saw Omi kneeled beside it, a tense look on his face, one that Yohji was used to seeing in dark alleys and empty roofs, not the security of their home.

Omi looked up at him, relief visibly coloring his expression.

"Yohji-kun," he sighed. His blue eyes flicked nervously to something behind the chair, then back to Yohji.

Yohji shook off Ken's hold and rounded the coffee table to stand behind Omi. The smaller blonde scrambled out of his way so he could get closer to Aya.

The boy was huddled in the corner, shadowed by the chair as he sat pressed against the wall in a fetal position, hands tangled in his hair as he pulled hard at it. He was wearing one of the outfits they stored in the basement closet, the things he wore when he chose to train in the mornings, kept apart so he wouldn't have to wake Yohji up by moving too much around their room. Had something happened while he practiced with the sword? Had he hurt himself?

"Aya?" Yohji questioned. The boy jerked at the sound of his voice, curling more tightly around himself. "What's the matter?"

Inching closer, Yohji sat down cross-legged and reached out a hand, but Aya jerked away, making a small, piteous sound like the whine of an injured animal.

"Aya," Yohji said again, worried, "Look at me."

Aya didn't move, keeping his head resolutely tucked against his knees.

Yohji looked up at Omi for an explanation.

"He was here when I came down," Omi whispered, "He wouldn't let me get near him. Ken either. He won't tell us what's wrong."

Looking back to the boy, Yohji tried to reach out again; this time he brushed Aya's bare forearm. The reaction was instantly more violent. Aya screamed.

Yohji jerked back, eyes wide.

"Aya!"

"No," the boy said in a trembling voice muffled by his position, "No, no. I'm sorry. No. I can't. I—no! No!"

"Aya!" Yohji tried again, his own voice rising in volume in his worry. Reaching out, he caught hold of Aya's shoulder, trying to help. Maybe the boy was having a flashback or something. "It's me. It's Yohji."

"I'm sorry, Yohji. I'm sorry. No. No, no, no. I can't. I can't—No, Master. No, Yohji. I—I'm sorry."

"Can't what? What's wrong?" Yohji tried, edging closer. Aya tried to pull away, but he was trapped in the corner.

"Don't! Don't," he pleaded, hands so tight Yohji was sure he was pulling part of his hair out. Yohji tried to open the fingers, but the stuck resolutely. Aya shook under his touch. "I can't, Yohji."

"Can't what?" he questioned, hands worried running over Aya's back. His breathing was erratic. "You don't have to do anything, Aya."

"Liar," Aya accused in a broken voice. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Damnit, Aya, look at me!" he demanded, grabbing both of Aya's shoulders and shaking him.

He was surprised when purple eyes came up to meet his own. They were dark with emotion, with pain.

"I knew…I thought," the boy pulled air in with difficulty, mouth open as he tried to breath between words, "I thought I could, but I can't. I can't! Don't you understand? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I can't fucking do that!"

"Aya, who wants you to do something?" he asked, hearing the rough emotion in his own voice. The look he received was one of disbelief and fear.

"You," Aya whispered. His eyes drifted, and when Yohji followed the gaze, he found himself looking at his own bare arm. There, over his shoulder and down his bicep were layers of deep red scratches, many of them scabbed over with dried blood. A look to the opposite shoulder revealed much of the same, and he released Aya in his shock. What had happened? Had he been with someone last night? Had he come home looking like that and scared Aya? He had been naked this morning. Did the boy think he had forced himself on that girl—

No, she had left. She had left, and Yohji had come home.

He looked to Omi, hoping for explanation, maybe for denial to the sick theory trying to form in his head.

The younger blonde looked at him with barely disguised disgust.

"Oh, fuck," Ken said. Yohji jerked his head in Ken's direction, finding Omi's half-sick expression mirrored there.

"I didn't," he defended lamely, shaking his head.

"You were naked, Yohji. You haven't been…you know…since," Ken looked away. He was right, though. Yohji hadn't been sleeping that way, not since Aya had been in his bed. And where were his sheets?"

By the door, his memory suddenly supplied. He had taken them off…

Oh God. No.

"No," he repeated out loud.

"Yohji-kun," Omi said, forcing Yohji to look back in his direction. "Did something happen?"

"I was drunk. I didn't. Aya," he looked back to the frightened boy, "I didn't."

Again he reached out, and again Aya balked.

"No!" the boy screamed again. "I told you I can't!"

Curling up again, Aya's words degraded into apologies and nonsense. He was hysterical. His breath was getting shallower and he didn't stop talking long enough to get enough air. Yohji was too shocked to move, watching in horror as Aya fell apart in front of him, remembering fragments of the night before: staggering home, standing in the doorway of their bedroom, the feel of Aya's thin hips beneath his own, the hard look in Aya's eyes as he told Yohji he hated him.

Then, he saw it. Aya's hands finally came down from his hair, the right going for the left to scratch along the wrist in the perpetual gesture of self-punishment. Now, though, the nails met not a cleanly bandaged wrist, nor even scratched skin. No. What Yohji saw was a bloody mess of once-white cloth, clinging loosely around Aya's thin wrist. The bandages were soaked, the skin around them smeared with dried blood. There was more on the chest of Aya's white t-shirt, and though he couldn't see behind Aya's drawn-up legs, Yohji would bet there was more there.

Without thinking, he grabbed the injured arm and yanked it towards him.

"No! Let go of me!" Aya cried, eyes back to Yohji. "I'm sorry, Yohji! I'm sorry!"

Figuring it couldn't get much worse, he made a quick move and tugged Aya into his lap. The boy was startled, landing in a loose sprawl. Yohji steadied him at the waist, sitting Aya over his lap so that the boy faced him. His arms were tucked protectively against his chest, eyes down, and feet under his legs so that he mostly kneeled over Yohji, sitting gingerly on the blonde's lap as he shivered. Apparently shocked out of his panic, he started to breathe, not deeply, but with a more regular rhythm.

"Aya," Yohji tried again. He ran his fingers through crimson hair, trying to smooth the abused strands before reaching again for Aya's injured arm. The boy let him unfold it, just a little, to look at the soaked bandages. Looking up, he found Aya looking directly at him.

"See," Aya said quietly, "I can't…I can't even…"

"I'm—" Yohji cut off his own words as Aya went on, mesmerized by the dark eyes.

"Yohji…I want…"

"What?" he asked, quietly. It took effort not to jump when Aya wrapped his arms loosely around Yohji's neck, leaning close and resting his head on Yohji's right shoulder. He lay like his was tired, head tipped so he could speak, very quietly, in Yohji's ear. The blonde couldn't move, didn't dare.

"I can't do what you want. I…"

The pause was so long he didn't think Aya would go on. He was on the verge of speaking when the boy continued.

"I can't do this anymore. Kill me, Yohji."

"What?" he hissed. Taking hold of Aya's shoulders again, he pushed the boy away enough to look at him. Aya met his eyes.

"Kill me. I don't want to be slave."

"Fuck, Aya, you're not." He looked hard at the boy, then clasp him suddenly back against his own chest, holding on fiercely as if Aya might slip through his arms. The redhead felt small and fragile. "I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry. Don't…don't you dare try to kill yourself because of something I did."

Aya sat limply in his arms.

"You're not a slave, Aya, not anymore. I was an idiot, okay? I was stupid, drunk idiot, and I'm not going to do that anymore, okay? I won't fucking touch you if that's what you want; I'll stay down here and sleep on the damn couch. I'll stay in the other room or stop talking to you or just stay the hell away, but don't do this. Please," he begged.

Yohji felt warm tears slip beneath the closed lids of his eyes. He pressed his face in against Aya's hair and resolved that he wasn't going to lose another one.

* * *

Omi stood in the doorway of the living room, mug of tea held in front of him, staring sadly at the scene. It hadn't changed much in the last four hours. Yohji sat on the couch looking tired and half sick. The blonde had been motivated, eventually, to go upstairs to shower and change, but his clothes were anything but the normal flashy attire. He wore loose, torn jeans and a gray sweatshirt, his hair pulled back halfheartedly into a ponytail and his sunglasses discarded on the coffee table beside a cup of coffee, Omi's last delivery to the room.

The tea was for Aya. The boy had confided to Yohji not too many days before that he didn't like coffee, and the older man had been quick to procure several kinds of tea for the house. Omi had made up some of it in hopes of getting Aya to drink something, or at least talk to him a little.

Since the scene this morning, Aya hadn't done anything besides sit in the large chair. Ken had dragged it back to its regular place, and Yohji had lifted Aya to put him there. Instantly the boy had curled up around himself, taking on the same position he had folded himself into on the floor. There was a fresh change of his clothes laying over the arm of the couch, but he still wore the bloody practice outfit he had found during the night. Omi had cleaned up his arm, acting alongside Yohji who held the thin appendage while he placed sterri strips over the three deep cuts.

That was one reason Omi was concerned with getting something into the redhead. He had lost a lot of blood. Early that morning Omi had gone to the bathroom only to find a disturbing scene. There was blood in the sink and on the vanity, more on the floor; the weapon was obviously Ken's broken razor, still lying near the edge of the sink. When he had found Aya's blue pajamas, the front soaked in red, he had leapt into action. If he hadn't dealt with so many injuries before, he might have panicked.

He had checked Yohji's room first, disturbed by the naked man sleeping there but with no real time to put it together. After a brief attempt to wake the man, Omi decided he definitely did not have time for that and went to get Ken instead, all the time replaying his own part in the incident. He had heard Yohji come in, but it wasn't anything unusual for the man to stumble up the stairs and wake them all up. Still, he should have gotten up at the slamming of the door and when Yohji yelled the redhead's name. But he had thought— no, it didn't matter what he had thought, he ought to have gotten up.

Together, he and Ken had made a search of the house, locating Aya in a very few minutes The boy had been sprawled loosely against the wall, but once they tried to get close to him he had, in Ken's words, completely freaked out. Thinking Yohji could fix the situation, Omi had sent Ken to get him, only to discover the blonde was the cause in the first place.

He still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but it was clear enough that Yohji had done something stupid while he was drunk off his ass. It infuriated Omi, and he had a hard time not giving the older man a piece of his mind. He had watched Aya over the last weeks, impressed by the progress he was trying so hard to make; the boy obviously trusted the man, more so than anyone else, and Yohji had betrayed that trust. The only thing that kept Omi's mouth shut was that he felt complicit in the betrayal. He should have gotten up.

Now he came forward, handing the mug to Yohji and gesturing to Aya. The blonde scooted forward on the couch, holding the tea in his hands.

"Hey, Aya," he said gently, "You want something to drink?"

Aya's head moved, just a little, no.

"Omi made some tea," he paused to sniff it, "It's the one with oranges. You like that one."

This time he got nothing, and Omi felt his heart react to the look of dejection that sprang anew to Yohji's face. Carefully he took the mug from the blonde's hands and went to stand next to Aya. Slowly, he reached to touch one pale arm, a motion that usually got Aya to look at him.

"Try a little, Aya?"

Nothing again.

"You need to eat something," he tried quietly. "I could make you some soup, or send Ken out to get noodles. There's ice cream in the freezer, do you want some of that?"

No, the head motioned again.

"Do you want to change your clothes? Yohji brought you some clean ones. I know you're cold."

There were goosebumps along the arm he had touched. Rarely was Aya seen in less than a sweater, and he favored heavy things with long sleeves. Now, having lost a good deal of blood, it was probably worse. But he motioned no, he didn't or wasn't or just didn't care.

"Want to read for a while? Yohji brought your book downstairs, the one you were reading."

No, he didn't.

"Are you sure? You got really far in it last night. Is it a good story?"

There was no response, Aya apparently only feeling it necessary to answer direct questions about what he wanted to do.

Omi wracked his brain for anything that would get a response. Yohji was useless, staring at the boy and looking like he might cry if he weren't so tired.

"Should I bring you a blanket?"

No.

"Do you want to go for a walk? We could go get some coffee or tea or something at the place down the street. Or we could go to the park."

No.

"Want to go work in the greenhouse for a while?"

Expecting another no, Omi almost missed the nod. He stopped immediately, putting the tea on the table and kneeling down next to the boy, eager to get him moving. Hesitantly, Aya looked up at him. His eyes were dark and shadowed, his hair tangled as it fell over his face.

Omi smiled as gently as he could.

"Want to change your clothes, then go out there for a while? I'm sure the plants will be glad to be watered."

Again Aya nodded, and after a minute, stiffly began to unfold himself. Yohji went to move, but Omi held up a hand to prevent him. Instead, he reached to help Aya, but the boy jerked away from his hands. Omi relented, lowering them and letting the redhead do it on his own. Getting up, he took his clothes silently, head lowered the whole time, and walked away to change.

~tbc~

Notes: Review to make the boys feel better; they like cookies and each other.


	64. Ground Me

Notes: Sorry for delay everyone, but I've recently gotten one of those job things…a real one, not just writing for food…and it's a bit of an adjustment. But I love it, really, still can't believe they're letting me influence young children, but I do get to teach them to read, plus, my desk is completely surrounded by books! So, no worries, I'll find lots of time to write, there's that whole lunch break not to mention staff meetings…

* * *

Chapter Sixty-Four: Ground Me

* * *

Aya stood quietly in the greenhouse, trying to soak in the warmth of the place. He wished it was sunny outside, but even with an overcast sky, mild heat gathered in the glass structure.

He was so cold. The orange sweater was thick, but Aya still felt chilled.

For a long time he stood there and tried not to think of anything beyond the sunlight, but other thoughts refused to be held long at bay; soon their heavy assault was upon him, heading him back towards the spiral of hopelessness that had been set in motion the night before.

So much was confusion. He didn't know whether to be angry or worried, and part of him was just scared. He hated that part the most.

He was such a failure. How pathetic. If there had been a shred of honor left in him, it was gone. What would his father say? Aya had run away, scared like a small child. He had betrayed his sister by refusing Yohji then tried to run away from the situation, from her. What would Aya-chan do if he killed himself? If Crawford found out about his refusal and took his punishment out on her? He had chosen his own comfort over his comatose sister's. He would go to hell for that.

Aya smirked a little, unable to help it. It was a hard expression. He had decided long ago that if hell existed, and it might, it had to be better than where he already was. Often he toyed with the idea that he had died in the explosion and was trying to expiate his sins in some sick version of purgatory.

It had been reincarnation that his father had believed in. If that was the case, whatever Aya had done in a past life, it must have been terrible. It showed how awful he was, how sick and dirty the core of his being was to be reincarnated as this thing that was to be abused. And he couldn't improve it. He was a sad excuse for a son and brother, willing to throw away his responsibility just because his chore was unpleasant.

And he couldn't even do it himself. What would his grandfather say? How could Aya ever face that dignified man and say that he lacked every honorable trait possessed by his samurai ancestors. Forget seppuku, he couldn't even manage to slice his wrists. He just kept seeing her, seeing Aya-chan's face. But he had already betrayed her, so it had to be an excuse.

He was so angry at himself. The situation…no, that didn't matter. It was his fault.

Those he had failed were like so many dead voices in his head.

All night he had cycled through memory and dreams, past and future horror interspersed with tense moments of trying to decide what to do. Then he had failed again. Left bloody and tired, he had tried to pick himself up and go on, to tell himself he would beg for Yohji's forgiveness and submit to the man. The images came, then, laying on Yohji's bed where he had slept so peacefully, so warm against the other, now he would be forced back upon it, caught under the sweating man as Yohji told him over and over how wrong and dirty and pathetic he was.

Anger came and went, finding no outlet.

He was so weak.

For a long time he had sat on the floor by the window, watching black go to purple then to gray. He tried to reign himself in, to restore part of the cold calm that had helped him with Crawford.

He couldn't do it. His resolve to follow orders collapsed when Omi saw him; the boy had looked so worried, and the false sympathy crushed him. Yohji had scared him, and he was too exhausted to fight it; he had shamelessly displayed his fear, and it could only be used against him. Aya just wanted it to be over. He loved Aya-chan with all his heart, but he wasn't strong enough; he wanted to be, but he knew he couldn't go through that again without going mad.

The idea of that wire wrapped around his neck, the quick tug, the last press of Yohji's warm body against his own. That was the touch he longed for, now. If only Aya-chan…

No, she would die. If he chose death, he chose it for them both.

_And why not?_

Quickly he shut out that voice, the one that liked to whisper late at night that Aya-chan wasn't going to wake up, that his sacrifices were in vain.

Could he do it? If he tried again, could he make the blade bite deep enough? Yohji had told him not do, but what did it matter? If he didn't, could he let Yohji touch him, like that, hurt him and use him? Perhaps Schuldig would come for him shortly, since he had been so uncooperative, or maybe Crawford.

Was that better?

_Stop it. _

He took a deep breath and tried to still his thoughts before they got out of control.

* * *

_Aya didn't know how long he had been waiting in the dark and had decided it might be forever._

_His stomach had ached from want of food, but it had before so the feeling gave no indication of time's passage. His eyes had adjusted as much as they would, making out only the faint lines of the walls. His arms had long ago fallen numb, suspended over his head so that he hung with his toes barely touching the floor. At some point his shoulder had ached, being strained by his last punishment, but that was numb now too._

_It was cold. For a long time he had shivered, naked flesh covered in gooseflesh. His nose had run, but he had no way to clean it. Now, nothing happened. He wasn't feeling his body; it was all cold._

_He had never had so much time to himself, not since before. Aya thought perhaps they had forgotten him or left him purposefully there to die._

_Part of him screamed for death, begged him to give up to the cold and just go to sleep. The pain would go, then, was already going. The wonders of death, of stillness and nothing, called to him. He wanted to smile, but his lips wouldn't move. Oh, he might be close._

_No! Another part of him cried out. Mentally, he shifted gears to listen to it, thinking he might try out all sides since he had so much time on his hands._

_Why not? he asked it, closing his eyes to listen carefully. _

_Aya-chan. His own mind hissed the word at him. His sister. His innocent little sister, laying still in some bed, trusting that her brother would keep her safe in her sleep. A different sleep. But pain free, even if it was dangerous. He wanted Aya-chan's sleep._

_You can't have it. You don't deserve it._

_Right. By his very desire he was proven unworthy. How weak to long for relief when it was up to him to protect her. He was bound by his family's honor, but his duty, to do everything in his power to save her. But he was without her, and there was only the pain. _

_To die or not, or to live in pain, or to die because of pain, but then the guilt would stop him or not, and if not, was there guilt in hell? _

_/Stop that!/_

_He heard the words in his head before he felt the hand strike him across the cheek._

_Yes, that was the pain. It barely touched him through the numbness. Pain stung, but guilt ate. What did—_

_/I said stop it!/_

_Another strike to his cheek, and Aya got his eyes open enough to see Schuldig standing close in front of him. There was light now, dim and from an odd direction._

"_What's wrong with him?" Nagi questioned, coming closer to lift a large flashlight and shine it in Aya's eyes._

"_The idiot's trying to drive himself crazy," Schuldig supplied, keys working in the locks above Aya's head. The cuffs snapped open, and he dropped, supported easily against the German's chest. _

_/That way madness lies, kätzchen. Come away from it./

* * *

_

Tired, Aya searched for a place to sit before he fell. Keeping one hand on the wooden table, he made his way to the back of the greenhouse and lowered himself to sit on a stack of pallets. To his right was a collection of junk, an odd assortment of things that didn't belong with the plants, everything from a broken toaster to a pair of skis. He hadn't had any idea where to put those things, so they had ended up occupying one corner. A corner, he had learned a few weeks before, that held one of the few unmonitored entrances to the greenhouse.

Behind the stack of junk was a hole some creature or another had dug, one that let cold air seep in. Aya had felt the chill first, and upon investigation had discovered the gap where a floorboard was missing and the wall no longer met the ground perfectly. He had thought to cover it, but then he had reconsidered due to Manfred.

Clicking softly, Aya looked in the direction of the junk pile. For a second he thought it wouldn't happen, but there was the sound of stirring, and Manfred emerged. The large gray cat barely fit between the closely stacked clay pots, but it stepped carefully through and, after having a languid stretch in the meager light, came over to sniff at Aya's outstretched hand.

"No food," Aya told it honestly. The cat didn't seem to mind, rubbing against his fingers and beginning to purr. As awful as he felt, Aya could help but pet the large head.

Manfred wasn't an attractive cat, and even Aya admitted the animal wasn't going to win any awards. But then again, neither was he, and the redhead was if anything more endeared to the creature for its scraggily appearance. Though big, Manfred was thin, all paws and head, covered in long, gray fur that stood out in unnatural tuffs. The gray tail had been broken and, left untreated, bent unnaturally in the middle; still, the cat made an effort to lift it up as it nuzzled Aya's leg in appreciation. The top half of Manfred's left ear had been lost to some in accident as had the cat's left eye; it was now little more than a patch of skin split by a scar, better, Aya thought, than an empty socket. It reminded Aya of the arm's dealer, Korat, and that had been his first thought for a name.

Deciding it was unfair to compare the cat to someone so odd, he had settled finally on Manfred*, a character much on his mind. Unfortunately, a few days later, he realized that Manfred was in fact a girl, but by then the name had stuck and he wasn't going to change it.

He thought of all of this, life and death and boys with girls' names, as he held his hand still and let the ragged cat walk under it, turn, and walk under it again.

~tbc~

Notes:

* This one belongs to Lord Byron, from a poem by the same name.

Review to pet the kitty…whichever one you like.


	65. Guilt Me

Chapter Sixty-Five: Guilt Me

* * *

Omi pushed himself away from the computer desk, careful to keep half an eye on the small window that displayed the greenhouse camera. Aya hadn't been in the best state when he'd left the boy there, and the last thing Omi wanted was to be responsible for him hurting himself any further.

Grabbing his water bottle from the floor, he took a drink and wondered what he was going to do now that Yohji had messed up so badly. The older man was planning for Aya to join Weiss, but Omi was the one doing the actual planning.

Above all, he needed to know if Aya was capable. Kritiker would have its own long assessment, some of which he would be asked to participate in, but the organization was supremely reluctant to release information which is what Omi needed most.

So he had started to look. Though Aya wasn't with Kritiker yet, there seemed to be some serious obstruction of records of the boy. Moving past the usual searches, which yielded neither birth certificates nor tax identification numbers, Omi had hacked into more than one system to collect information, often coming up with pages that were inaccessible or strangely deleted. Only small databases yielded much of anything. Now, the points of information he was lacking seemed almost impossible to find, at least without something else to go on. There were a few very confusing details that he needed to work out.

Difficulties aside, Omi had been sitting on some pretty important stuff for about a week, trying to figure out where to go with it. Ultimately, he had decided a chat with Aya was required and had been set on getting it out of the way on their day off, but Yohji had messed that up.

What precisely had the man done? The question ate at Omi. He didn't think it was…that, but it couldn't have been good. It seemed that a good deal of Aya's hard work was going to be lost, and Omi didn't know if the boy was strong enough to build himself up all over again. Plus, they didn't have much time.

Omi shuffled a few files and put them in a folder; they would have to wait a few more days. Glancing back at the camera shot, he watched Aya pet a large cat. Omi had first noticed the animal three days ago and was surprised it hadn't activated the alarm. He had watched Aya sneak it tiny bits of food, pet it over and over, and shoo it away just before Yohji walked in the door. Omi had quickly decided to let the boy keep his pet a secret, but he was going to have to give up the rest.

* * *

"What're you doing?" Ken asked as he stepped into the kitchen.

"Making dinner." Yohji didn't snap at having to explain what he was obviously doing, paying only half a mind to his friend as he leant over the stove and kept watch on the cooking noodles.

"Why?"

He didn't bother to answer that, requesting instead that Ken find him the mirin. This required an extensive excavation of the condiments in the refrigerator and offered Yohji a reprieve.

He didn't want to tell Ken why he was cooking, because it was a stupid idea. It wasn't like Aya was going to come in and be won over simply because Yohji had managed some version of a food he liked. But he had to do something. Anything.

He felt…

There weren't words for it. He was disgusted with himself, utterly loathe to even think about what he had done. And he was disappointed in the revelation that he would sink so low; even if he was drunk, Yohji liked to think he had standards of behavior, and attempted rape was just not something he had ever thought himself capable of.

But he had been wrong.

It made him sick with himself, another log to toss on the fire of his despicability, right up there with murder.

And it fucking hurt. When he had realized what Aya had done, what he had almost done, Yohji had realized how much he actually felt for the boy. That alone was a sudden discovery, but it occurred almost simultaneously with the revelation of how much he had hurt the other.

He prayed it wasn't an irrevocable mistake. He wanted to apologize again, but none of that had gotten through. How many times had he said he was sorry? Aya hadn't responded at all, sitting silently until Omi moved him away. And some grand gesture wasn't going to cut it; he couldn't just hand Aya a big bouquet with a little card that said 'sorry I almost realized your biggest fear.' But he couldn't dismiss it either, not without leaving a rift between them that would only fester with time.

So he was making dinner.

"Here," Ken said, putting the bottle on the counter to his right. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "Go to the store and get some strawberry ice cream. I'll pay you back later."

"Why?"

"Because Omi only has the coffee flavored kind," he replied, poking at the noodles with a long set of chopsticks and wondering if they were ready.

"Yohji," Ken seemed to fish for words, "This isn't going to fix it."

"I know, just…just give me time to think," he answered, hearing the weariness in his own voice and wishing he had put his glasses back on since it had to be showing in his eyes. "And get the ice cream."

* * *

Yohji fidgeted beside the set table, adjusting and readjusting one of the plates. He had tried his best to get it together, finishing dinner before changing into a better pair of jeans and his blue button-down. He had also collected his sunglasses, and enough money to pay Ken back for his trip to the store.

Finally, he had set the table, presenting simply his best attempt at soba noodles. He had even managed to put together the dipping sauce without resorting to the add-water version. It wasn't often that he cooked, and when he did, he favored western food, so the noodles, sauce, and steamed vegetables represented quite a bit of work on his part.

Now he waited for Omi to bring Aya. He had already gone through two packs of cigarettes, but he really wanted another one. Instead, he reached to move the plate again, only to have his wrist caught by Ken. On edge, he barely resisted taking a swing at his friend.

"Leave it alone," the brunette directed. Yohji was surprised to see concern rather than anger in the brown eyes. "It'll be okay."

He nodded as Ken released him, not sure how to say he wasn't so sure. Worse, the look on the brunette's face made it clear he wasn't either.

The kitchen door opened and Omi stepped in, Aya silently in tow a few steps behind him.

There wasn't a scene, no yelling, nothing but an awkward settling around the table. For the first time, Yohji forwent the seat next to Aya and sat directly across from him, a move that made Ken shift his seat as well. It seemed to throw everyone a little off balance and add to the palpable tension in the room.

"Eat up," Yohji offered, trying to smile and not quite managing it. He looked at Aya, but the boy stared resolutely at his own lap. He looked pale and tired.

Ken quickly served himself, passing the tray of noodles to Yohji who shoveled some onto his plate halfheartedly. Omi took care of his own plate and Aya's as well, stepping in for Yohji who usually managed what the boy ate. Thankfully, the younger blonde took over the conversation as well, talking to everyone and filling in answers when Yohji or Aya failed to come through. Ken played a supporting role, and they managed to get through dinner.

"Yohji," Ken tapped him on the elbow, and Yohji realized he had been staring at Aya again, lost in thought about what he had almost done. "Dessert," the soccer player suggested.

"Good idea," Omi smiled, scooping his and Aya's plates from the table. Though he moved quickly, Yohji still noticed the redhead hadn't done much more than move food around on his. Grabbing Ken's plate along with his own, he followed Omi to the sink.

"Talk to him," Omi whispered, just loud enough to be heard over the running water. "And stop staring."

Yohji nodded. He got several bowls from the cabinet and then some spoons, but it was all automatic. He felt like he was sleepwalking, too distracted now that Aya was in the room to participate properly in what had been his own plan. He just wanted to make things right with Aya, and until he did, nothing was going to seem real.

When he sat a bowl in front of him, the boy stiffened, hands fisting in his lap and eyes directed downward. Yohji lingered, standing beside him and trying to come up with something to say.

"We got strawberry ice cream, so you don't have to eat the coffee kind," he tried. Aya nodded, but it was a stiff motion that only made Yohji feel worse. When he failed to say anything else, he found himself displaced by Omi who, after giving him a rather exasperated look, filled Aya's bowl and told the boy to eat.

Yohji wandered back to his own seat to do little more than play in the ice cream in front of him; he stirred the melting pink aimlessly between long stares across the table. Aya seemed to be doing the same, lifting the spoon to his mouth only a few times before poking at the ice cream despondently. Everything was quiet, and Yohji had almost worked himself up to a comment when Aya spoke.

"Can I go?"

It was unclear who it was addressed to, and Omi met Yohji's eyes hesitantly.

"Yeah," Yohji finally said. As much as he wanted to avoid ordering Aya around, he couldn't stand the thought of the boy listening to anyone else. Everything was so damn screwed up.

Aya got up silently and left the table, heading upstairs.

"Well, that went well," Ken said sarcastically, scooting away his empty bowl.

"Shut up," Yohji returned as he dug out a cigarette and lit up.

"Don't get all pissy with me," the other shot back.

"Guys," Omi broke in, "Don't. Please."

* * *

Aya paced back and forth across the room. There wasn't much time.

He had to come to a decision.

What was he going to do? Was he going to submit to Yohji? He should. It was his fault, his responsibility. Aya-chan weighed heavily on his mind, and he knew he should do anything to protect her. He had done it before. It was just his body, and what was that worth? What was he worth? Nothing.

But another part of him cried out against the injustice. It was Yohji's fault! The man had encouraged that piece of him, giving life to something almost dead, some sense of self-preservation that whispered possibilities of resistance and escape.

It didn't matter, though, because resisting would only get him beaten. Right?

Aya could take that. He deserved that for his cowardice. If Yohji hit him before…Yohji would hit him…that would be better. At least he would know for sure where he stood, what the man wanted.

He couldn't be sure of even that. Yohji had made everything so confusing! With his tender touches and nice gifts and…Aya couldn't understand when things changed so quickly, and he couldn't get a grip on what he needed to do.

His hand came up and pulled hard on his hair. Unable to sort anything out, he decided to wait and try to withstand whatever his owner had in mind. Curling up on top of the comforter, Aya focused his eyes on the door and waited for Yohji to come.

~tbc~

Notes: Yohji needs advice…review to give him some, or at least a sound smack to the head.


	66. Guide Me

Chapter Sixty-Six: Guide Me

* * *

Aya came to consciousness slowly, curling more tightly around himself before he roused enough to figure out why he was cold. Once he got his eyes opened, it took another moment to place the room, awash in intense moonlight and viewed from the strange angle. He had fallen asleep lying sideways across the bed, curled up like a cat on top of the comforter.

Night had fallen, bringing the full moon to glow blue through the open blinds and chilling the room. He wasn't used to it, not when he slept under the covers half on top of Yohji who was always so warm.

Refusing to dwell on any matters that had tortured him through the day, he pulled back the blankets and crawled under, quickly curling up again as the cool sheets fell around him.

* * *

Dreams came and went, entangled with memories. He woke up again and again in the cold room, shaking, trying to figure out where he had fallen asleep and who was going to punish him. Well before morning, he had all the lights turned on, and sat wide awake with the blankets pulled up around him.

Gradually the room lightened, and Aya turned off the lights, settling back in his nest to watch the first rays of the sun trek across the floor as they fell through the slatted blinds. He jumped when someone moved in the hall, heart instantly racing, but no one came in. And Yohji didn't come.

It was the first morning he'd woken up without the blonde. Usually, Aya would get up early, go practice, and come back. If Yohji was still sleeping, and most often he wasn't, Aya would shower and return again. By then Yohji was always up. Aya would get his underwear and socks, and then Yohji would hand him something to wear for the today before he left for his own shower. A few minutes later, he would come back, get ready, then they would go downstairs for breakfast before work.

But Yohji wasn't there.

Aya sat still for a while longer before he turned to look at the clock. It was almost nine. Suddenly determined, he shucked off the blankets and went to get cleaned up.

* * *

He didn't realize what he was hoping until he stepped back into the bedroom. Some part of Aya's mind had thought Yohji would be there, patiently asking him whether he wanted to wear this or that or telling him that he looked nice in whatever it was.

It didn't matter, he told himself. He couldn't count on those kinds of things; they might have been an act, something to lure him in, to get him attached to the man. Even in his own head that rang false, but he tried to cling to the idea, hoping it would make Yohji's absence hurt less.

As soon as he thought that, there was a surge of fear that Schuldig would come, and he found himself backing towards the wall before he got a handle on it. Shaking his head, Aya tightened his grip on his towel and walked resolutely to the closet.

Opening the door on his half, he looked at the collection of clothes hanging there, clothes Yohji had bought him. It was suddenly overwhelming, and he had to step away. He went to his drawer instead, pulling out a pair of black boxers and a pair of socks and setting them on the bed. Taking a breath, he went back to the closet. It was just clothes; he could do that. He wasn't a complete moron.

Aya took out a pair of jeans and, after a few minutes of consideration, a soft, blue sweater. He added a long-sleeved white t-shirt to go under the sweater; maybe he wouldn't be so cold once he got dressed.

He had stripped off the wet bandage in the bathroom and avoided looking at his sore arm; he didn't want to see the three marks there. Quickly, he dropped the towel and pulled on the t-shirt followed by the boxers; next were jeans, socks, and sweater. Yohji usually did his hair, but he stood in front of the mirror and smoothed it down himself. He didn't touch the jar of stuff the other usually put in it, eager to get away from the reflective surface.

Dressed, he took a few minutes to make the bed. Yohji always seemed surprised when he did that, but the blonde had never complained, so Aya always tried to have it made. When that was done, he sat down again, unsure what to do next.

* * *

The door had barely closed behind the customer when Ken gave in to his earlier impulse to swear.

"Shit."

Saying it aloud eased a little of his tension, but not enough. At a quarter past ten, it was already painfully clear that it was going to be one hell of a Monday.

With Omi off to school, he had opened the shop by himself. He had been a good sport about that, understanding that Omi had to go and Yohji and Aya were working on their, uh, issues. But he had barely flipped the sign when three customers hurried in and demanded on the spot orders; one of these he could have accomplished, maybe even two, but dealing with three picky customers had been enough to put him on edge. This had led to him breaking a flowerpot, and while cleaning it up, he had knocked the broom into a hanging fern and knocked it down and spilling dirt on his recently cleaned floor.

Barely recovered from this mishap, Ken had gone to check the order slips only to find there were no less than eight, and only two of them were bouquets. He could handle bouquets, mostly, and , if the gods were in a favorable mood, maybe the simple rose arrangement. The other five were clearly beyond him, and if Yohji didn't bother to show up (which he might not), Ken was going to be royally screwed.

After dealing with yet another customer, an older lady who made his first three arrivals seem patient in comparison, Ken was ready to lock the door and hide in the greenhouse. He leaned over the counter, the yellow slips spread out before him, mocking him…

Then the door opened, not the front door, the good door, the door in the back that meant he was going to have some help.

He expected Yohji, most likely in a foul mood and possibly hungover; he didn't expect Aya.

The boy lingered just in front of the door he had quietly closed behind him, watching Ken warily as he twisted his hands around one another. He was pale, his complexion verging more towards sickly than it had in the last two weeks, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Ken gave a fleeting thought to Aya being unfit for work, but then he looked back to the order slips and decided to keep his mouth shut.

"Hey," he greeted, a little unsure how to deal with the redhead when he wasn't accompanied by Yohji. They kind of came as a pair, Yohji navigating daily tasks for both of them. As far as the Koneko was concerned, Yohji usually showed up in the morning, Aya behind him; they would both help open the shop, then Yohji would sort through the order slips and dole out assignments, leaving the easiest for Ken and, recently, splitting the more complicated things between Aya and himself.

Aya seemed equally at a loss as to how to proceed and watched Ken with what he thought was suspicion, but there was nervousness too. He kind of reminded Ken of one of his soccer kids, Shin, a shy boy with glasses who was a little shorter than the others and would linger on the sidelines if not encouraged. Shin barely said two words to anyone his first month on the team. Then during a scrimmage he had fallen down and scraped his knee pretty bad; Ken had been the one to pick him up and get a bandaid and a tissue to wipe his nose with. Somehow he'd proved himself to the little boy that day, and they'd been friends ever since; Shin had started talking and was getting to be one of the better players on the team. The thought made Ken smile, and he waved Aya over.

It took a second, but the boy came, standing a good foot from the counter, but attentive.

"You want to work on some of these?" Ken asked, gesturing to the order slips.

Aya nodded.

"Okay, here, how about this one?" he lifted the slip, stepping closer to Aya so the boy could read it. Aya tensed, and Ken thought he might pull back, but he didn't. "This is for lilies for Hamami-san. See this? That means it's in a glass vase, and here, that means it's a medium-sized on, so, uh, about this big." He gestured with his hands.

Again, Aya nodded. The silence was disconcerting, but Ken pushed on.

"You know where the vases are, and the flowers are, well, you know—here."

He handed over the slip, and Aya was careful not to let their fingers touch as he took it. Silently, he turned away and headed for the cooler.

Within ten minutes, Aya had gathered his materials and was hard at work at the back table, more at ease than he had been since he entered the shop. No longer paying attention to Ken, he seemed to be in his own world. Not about to disturb him, Ken snagged a few roses from the cooler and brought them up to the counter to work.

* * *

"You're my savior, you know that?" Ken asked. "I would never have gotten this done by myself."

Aya looked at him, then ducked his head. Well, that wasn't quite the response he'd predicted, but Ken had given the boy two good hours of silence, and if he didn't talk a little, he was going to go crazy. People weren't meant to be that quiet.

"I'm glad you came to work," he tried. Aya didn't even look up, intensely studying the surface of the table.

Moving yet another of Aya's arrangements to the cooler, he found himself amazed at the quality of the work. The lilies were beautiful, and the carnations arranged in an appealing way that Ken was sure had something to do with art and stuff. They looked fancy. Settling in the chair across from Aya, Ken told him so.

"Have you done this before?"

"Not really," Aya answered quietly, the first words he'd said all morning. Ken took it as a good sign.

"Wow. When I first tried it, I completely mauled the flowers. You must be a natural or something."

Aya didn't answer, but he found the boy looking at him; he didn't know whether to be grateful for or unnerved by the serious stare of purple eyes.

"What?" he asked.

"You…you don't like it?"

"What? The shop? It's okay, but, come on, there's lots of things I'd rather be doing then trying to make flowers look pretty."

This, apparently, made no sense to Aya, at least if one could judge by the confused expression.

"Don't get me wrong, it's not the worst job. Omi kind of likes it, and Yohji," he stopped when Aya tensed at the name, eyes instantly back on the table. Damn. Unable to resist putting in a word on his friend's behalf, Ken risked his help for the day, and forged ahead. "I know you're mad at him—I mean, who wouldn't be, he was a total—

he did something stupid, but Yohji's not like that."

He watched, curious, as Aya twisted the fingers of his right hand around his right forearm, belatedly recognizing the nervous gesture.

"Hey, uh, don't—"

He stopped again when Aya started at the command, hands instantly still in his lap and eyes hidden under his ragged hair. His back was stiff, and there was the slightest tremble of his shoulders. It wasn't scared, no, Ken knew scared; it was cautious, maybe, worried, like he thought Ken was going to…

"I'm not, Aya, hey, I'm not gonna…I mean, you know nobody's gonna hurt you here, right? Aya?"

There was another nod, not the least sure. Ken didn't like that. Aya shouldn't be scared of him, not after all this time

"Nobody's gonna hurt you here. We're the good guys…sort of," he smiled. "At least we try to be. And none of us wants you to get hurt, especially Yohji. He's tried so hard to make it easy for you. I mean, I know it's not easy, but he tried.

"He got drunk and did a dumbass thing. There's no excuse for that, but…that's not Yohji. He's a good guy. Look, he brought you here, right? He spent all that time looking after you? Do you know how much shit that got him into?"

Aya looked up again, staring at him through the fall of his hair.

"He put a lot on the line for you, Aya. If Kritiker had decided you were a threat or something, Yohji would've—it wouldn't be good. But he didn't mind. He just wanted to help 'cause that's the way he is.

"He acts like he doesn't care, but he'd risk himself in a heartbeat to save somebody that's hurting. He's," Ken coughed, trying to clear some of the roughness from his voice, "He's taken a bullet for me, and he's one of the two people I trust with my life. I know he screwed up, but he did a lot of good before that. Doesn't he deserve another chance?"

The bell on the door jingled, and Ken jumped up to go answer it. He was, though, unable to resist turning back for just a second.

"Think about it."

* * *

It was almost three when Yohji made it into the shop, tired and frazzled.

He had spent most of the night tossing and turning on the couch, listening to every noise and trying to figure out what Aya was doing. Then his body gave up and he slept for a while, reluctant to return to the waking world where he had to deal with everything.

The third time he'd woken up, it was after one in the afternoon, and his suddenly traitorous body had refused to let him stay still any longer. So slowly he'd gone about the tasks of straightening his makeshift bed and getting a shower, dreading going to his room where Aya was waiting. He hadn't wanted to see the dark look in the boy's eyes, that haunting mix of confusion and expectation.

But Aya hadn't been there, and that scared the hell out of him. He had barely managed to tug on some clothes and brush down his hair before rushing out the door. He had checked the kitchen first, then the gym, and after a quick foray back through the living room, had been almost panicked by the time he went out to check the shop.

Ken looked his way as he burst through the door.

"Is he here?"

"Aya?"

"Yes! Aya! Damnit, where did he—"

"He's in the greenhouse," Ken shook his head as he answered, either amused or aggravated by Yohji's display of concern. "It's almost time for school to be out."

Right. The girls.

Yohji sighed and tried to get himself under control. For all his sleep, he felt exhausted, and he couldn't think straight, not when Aya was so much on his mind. His instincts told him to have a shot of something strong to fix it, but thankfully his brain stepped in and put a stop to that idea. So he pulled on his apron.

Seeing he was ready to work, Ken took pity on him, giving Yohji the details he wanted without making him ask.

"So, he worked on the arrangements for a while, then washed some of the windows. I, uh, stopped him before he finished 'cause it looked like he was gonna fall off the step ladder."

Yohji nodded. Aya was probably still light-headed from the blood loss, not to mention affected the stress of the whole thing.

"Then what?"

"Well, we were pretty much done in here, so I let him go work in the greenhouse."

"That's it?"

"Yep, and we did it all by ourselves, too," Ken added in a rather sarcastic tone, waving his hand at the collection of finished arrangements.

"And nothing caught on fire?"

"Not a damn thing."

* * *

Yohji pulled down the shutter and locked it, surprised that he felt better than he had before. Ken had put him in a good mood despite himself, and it never hurt to have a dozen girls fall all over him. But whatever positive feelings he had been building came instantly crushing down on him when he turned around to find Omi staring at him. That wasn't the fun teenager look, or even the house mother look; it was Bombay, serious and only slightly tempered by the mundane surroundings of the shop.

Yohji opened his mouth to defend himself on instinct alone, only to be cut off.

"You didn't talk to him?" the younger boy accused, standing directly in front of Yohji. There was a moment of strange hilarity as he had to look up to try to stare Yohji down, but it thankfully passed without incident. "How do you expect this to get better if you don't?"

"Don't what?"

"Talk to Aya!"

Yohji wanted to tell him how difficult it was, how he was ashamed, how he couldn't look Aya in the eyes. He wanted, needed Omi to understand that he didn't know how to act with Aya now, how their arrangements had fallen through, and, most of all, how he was afraid the boy wouldn't want to talk to him ever again. What came out was a long sigh.

"Yohji," Omi's voice softened, but only enough to buffer the underlying steel, "Do you realize how serious this is? Do you realize what he tried to do?"

Yohji didn't want to talk about that. In fact, he never wanted to think about it again. But Omi was forcing the issue, and he had to nod in acknowledgement before the other continued.

"How do you think he's feelings right now?"

~tbc~


	67. Grant Me

Chapter Sixty-Seven: Grant Me

* * *

"Are you ready to go?"

He lingered in the doorway of the bedroom as Aya silently gathered his things. The boy looked tired, slower than usual as he picked up the long bag with his weapons inside. He put the bag over his shoulder and tucked the neat square of his clothes under his arm, then stood patiently in the center of the room, just waiting.

The quiet pulled at Yohji, and he drew hard on his cigarette, trying to make the feeling go away.

"Come on."

* * *

The shinai landed hard on his shoulder, the pain surging through his arm. A simple move; he should have blocked it. Instantly, Sato backed off, falling into a defensive stance. Aya didn't relent; tightening his grip, he surged forward, aiming a hasty jab at his sensei's throat.

The older man blocked it with ease, forcing Aya's shinai down and to the right. Stepping back, he let Aya come again. This time he tried for the head, a stupid move, he thought, even as he executed it. His middle was left open, and from the basic stance, Sato easily ducked and, before he had time to move, landed another blow on his side.

Again his sensei stepped back, but now he was lowering the practice sword, executing a quick bow, before turning away entirely.

"You're being stupid," Sato stated. Going to the wall, he leaned his shinai again it. Turning again, he faced Aya while Aya tried to catch his breath, his sword still half-raised as he waited in the middle of the floor. "Put that down before you hurt yourself."

There was irritation in his voice, sarcasm even, and Aya's first instinct was to lash out against it, but that was waylaid, barely, by the embarrassment of failure, a feeling that struck him harder than fear of punishment. He lowered the shinai. His chest rose and fell heavily from the sparring, and he body ached from the hits he'd taken. Normally there would be one at most; they only warmed up with the bamboo sword, quickly moving on to more serious versions. But he'd been off tonight. Everything with Yohji was—

"Stop thinking about it," Sato ordered, and for a horrific moment, Aya wondered if the man had read his mind. "It's all over your swordplay. I'm not sure you didn't get hit on purpose.

"That means you die. There's no drama out there," Sato informed, his voice calm and level, "The people you face do not care. You mess up, you die. If you're lucky, you're the only one, but there's a good chance your team will die too.

"If you want to die, do not waste my time."

"I don't," Aya heard the words before he thought them out. The marks on his wrist screamed he was a liar, red and angry, unbandaged and visible when the sleeves of his gi fell back. But he didn't want to fail, not on…not on a mission, not when other people were depending on him. Not when Yohji was depending on him.

That thought made him pause. Given the opportunity, he would slit Crawford's throat in an instant, but Yohji was another matter entirely. It was…completely different.

"I don't want to die," he said, more sure this time as he lifted the shinai and firmed his stance.

"Good," Sato replied, "I would hate to think I had wasted all that time."

* * *

Yohji watched as Aya more or less collapsed into the passenger seat. His bangs were wet and stuck to his face, and it took him two tries to get the seatbelt fastened.

Dragging his eyes away, Yohji turned on the headlights and started for home. There were no words, just the quiet music from the radio as it played some blues station, and Yohji didn't expect any. He pulled into the garage and shut off the car, surprised when Aya didn't move. He thought the boy would be eager to get away from him.

"Asleep?" he asked.

No, Aya shook his head, but he made no move to get out. Yohji waited, keeping his hands on the steering wheel as if to keep an eye on them. There were so many things to be said, and the force of it all held him still. He worked in his head, trying to come up with something to start with. Aya beat him to it.

"Ken," Aya started, stopped, then started again softly, "He said it was a mistake."

"Yeah, it was…I'm so sorry, Aya. I—"

"It was a mistake," he repeated, quiet but sure.

"Yes."

"Okay."

Without another word, Aya got out of the car and went to the house.

~tbc~

Notes: Short chapter this time, but a longer one is in the works, and then, plot…maybe…


	68. Glean Me

Chapter Sixty-Eight: Glean Me

* * *

Yohji sat in the silence of the garage, listening to his own breathing. He couldn't stop thinking about the night he had brought Aya home, how he had waited in the same spot, debating if he was really going to take the boy in. As fucked up as everything was, he didn't regret his choice.

Finally, his hands dropped from the steering wheel and applied themselves to the task of lighting a cigarette. Not until it was between his lips did Yohji try to sort out what had just happened.

It seemed Aya, with some sudden understanding with an origin Yohji couldn't begin to fathom, was giving him an out. It sounded like Aya was ready to write off the entire incident, mark it down as a _mistake_.

Part of Yohji wanted to leap at the opportunity, especially if it meant he didn't have to think about it or talk about it anymore. He wanted to put it behind them and move on, and Aya seemed too willing to do just that.

But, Aya wasn't the paragon of dealing with interpersonal conflict, and (here Yohji damned the thought even as his mind produced it) it wasn't the right thing to do.

He knew it. He just fucking knew it. Nothing could be that easy. If he swept this thing under the rug, if he let Aya do that, then it would come back and bite him in the ass. Hard. To say Aya had trust issues was a hell of an understatement, and something like complete violation of trust on Yohji's part was going to do—had already done—some serious damage. A bandaid of denial wasn't going to cut it, and as much as Yohji wanted to believe he had been forgiven, even an idiot could see that wasn't completely true.

Aya was used to accepting a hell of a lot of abuse, enough that what Yohji had done wouldn't be among the worst crimes against him. Yohji didn't want him to think that he had to accept things like that here.

Dropping his finished cigarette out the window, the blonde sighed and let his head drop back against the seat. Omi was right; they had to talk about it. Talking about his feelings wasn't Yohji's strong point. He could talk someone into something, preferably his bed, or out of acts, information, or clothes, but when it came to dealing with the nitty gritty of emotions, he tried to avoid it at all costs.

Currently feeling like he was getting ready to shoot himself in the foot, Yohji stepped out of the car and went inside.

He stopped just inside the door to kick off his boots and hang his coat in the closet before walking into the dark kitchen. There he waited, stood around looking out the window though there was nothing to see. The shower was running upstairs, and he wanted to give Aya enough time to finish cleaning up before he went up there.

* * *

He knocked against the door, even though it wasn't closed all the way. There wasn't an answer, and he didn't expect one, really.

Despite the twisting of his stomach, Yohji walked into his bedroom with an air of ease. Unsure of getting too close, he went to the end of the bed and sat there on the edge, shoving his sunglasses further up on his nose and trying to gage Aya's reaction to his presence.

Aya wasn't moving. Dressed in a pair of gray, cotton pajamas, he sat near the head of the carefully made bed. His bare feet were just visibly under his crossed legs, and his wet hair clung to his face and neck. He looked incredibly young, with the sleeves of his pajamas falling over his wrists and his eyes trying to close with exhaustion. Initially he turned to look in Yohji's direction, but soon dropped his gaze to focus on the navy comforter.

"Aya," he started in though he was unsure where exactly he was heading, "We need to talk about what happened."

Okay, that didn't sound too bad. But Aya didn't respond right away, and Yohji had to force himself to wait it out, the silence making him more uncomfortable.

"It was a mistake," Aya finally replied, his voice soft.

"Yeah," Yohji agreed. Carefully he moved a little more onto the bed, shifting his pose to mirror Aya's but keeping his eyes trained on the other. "But we need to talk about it."

"Why?" Aya questioned, barely more than a whisper.

Yohji sighed and ran a hand through his loose hair.

"Because," he said, then realized that wasn't an answer in itself. "Because I can't tell what you're thinking, and sometimes we misunderstand each other."

There was no response this time, and after almost a minute, he pushed on.

"Aya, what I did was so stupid. It was…awful, and I never thought I would do that," he said. Unable to keep his eyes on the boy, he looked down at his own hands in an unconscious mirror of Aya, "I was drunk, but that's not an excuse. I wasn't thinking, and I hurt you. That's the last thing I want to do. I don't want to hurt you; I don't want anyone to hurt you.

"I didn't even realize what happened that night, not until Ken woke me up. Once I figured it out, god, I just wanted to crawl away and hide. And that you would think of…of killing yourself over that—I'm so sorry, Aya. I am."

He had to pause for a deep breath, but Yohji knew if he waited for more than a few seconds he might never get through the rest of it.

"I won't ever do that again. I don't want you to think that you have to put up with that shit here. You don't. And you've got every right to be mad at me; as much as I hope you'll forgive me, you're allowed not to. I just…wanted you to know that."

Yohji expected the first minute of silence, maybe even the second, but as the moment stretched on, he looked up nervously at Aya. The redhead was staring at his wrist, the gray sleeve pushed back and the fingertips of his right hand tracing and retracing the three deep slashes. Yohji first instinct was to grab at him, to drag him to the bathroom and bandage the wounds before his constant touching reopened them again. But now was not the time.

"Aya?"

Purple eyes snapped up, full of…something. His face impassive, Aya was hard to read.

"Aya," Yohji tried again. "Talk to me."

Suddenly expression broke through the mask; Aya looked young and hurt and unsure.

"I don't know what you want," he whispered, "I'm always so confused here."

"I want you to be happy."

Okay, that looked like it made no sense to Aya. The confusion persisted for a few seconds, then was replaced by a slightly menacing look which was in turn covered by that blankness, leaving Yohji to wonder which he should address.

"Tell me what you were thinking just now."

Aya spoke, probably reacting to the direct command, but as long as he was talking, Yohji wasn't going to knock his own methods.

"I don't know why you want that, or if you really do. I wonder if you're lying to me, and why."

Then he looked down, hunching his shoulders a little; it was a pose that Yohji hadn't seen in weeks, and it stung that Aya still thought the blonde might hit him. Hadn't they accomplished anything?

"Okay," he said calmly, "We can deal with that. I want you to be happy because I care about you. I'm not lying to you; I don't have any reason to do that. Aya, look at me, please."

To facilitate the request, Yohji pulled off his sunglasses and laid them on the bed. Aya managed to look at him, though his gaze was unsure.

"I told you before, I want to help you. What those bastards—your, the people who kept you, what they did to you was wrong. It was wrong. You know that, right?"

"Yes," the boy all but hissed at him.

"Okay," he agreed, a little taken aback by Aya's shifting moods. Geez, he could be snippy himself, but he didn't usually hiss at people unless he was too hurt or tired to keep himself…oh. Maybe that was it. There was no way Aya had gotten any sleep the night before last, and Ken had said he looked tired in the shop; there were circles under his eyes, and he was more or less ready to drop off. He might have forgiven Yohji out of sheer exhaustion, unwilling to expend the energy to uphold the tension between them, but it also seemed he was a bit too out of it to police his own actions as tightly as normal.

Maybe.

His instincts were usually spot on about that kind of thing, so Yohji decided to go with it.

Edging closer, Yohji settled about a foot from Aya. Slowly, he reached out and pulled one pale hand away, setting it on the bed before taking the other, the left, in his own and tugging it into his lap. Aya stared at his extended arm, the cuts exposed, red and tender looking against his pallid skin.

"I'm sorry," Yohji said as he ran his fingers gently over the marks. "I didn't mean to…Aya, why did you…what were you thinking when you did this?"

"I don't know."

"Really?"

Aya tugged his arm and Yohji let it go; the redhead folded it up, pressing both thin limbs against his stomach.

"Tell me, Aya."

That look was definitely angry, even as Aya drew further into himself. He didn't want to.

"Tell me," Yohji tried again, letting a little frustration bleed into his tone. It wasn't the best plan, but if he had a chance of making Aya open up, this was it.

"I," he stopped after that word. He always did. "I was upset."

"You were angry?"

Red brows drew together, like he was just puzzling it out for himself, "Yes…no…"

Yohji almost said something, but closed his mouth when Aya continued. If he could just shut up and get the boy going…it had worked in the past.

"I…I was angry, at first. You lied to me, I trusted you and… I wanted to—never mind.

"I was surprised. I didn't think—you said…you said you didn't want that. I wasn't…you surprised me."

Scared. That's what he wasn't saying. You scared me.

"I wanted to get away. It was so much like…I thought you were going to…that you wouldn't let me go. And I ran away."

He shook his head, looking down as he kept on in the quiet voice.

"I never run away," he defended. "I don't. At least, I didn't, before. It was…pathetic.

"Everything was so confusing," he said. Yohji felt the momentum of the talk, and he doubted Aya even realized he was going on. "I was by myself, and I kept thinking about things, about how everything had been before I came here and how everything's been here, how nice you were to me."

God, that broke Yohji's heart. He had to bite his lip to keep himself from apologizing again.

"I didn't know…I thought you had lied to me. He always lied to me. I realized how stupid I had been to trust…I thought…I thought you would come get me, and I was hiding."

There was a bit of a tremor in his voice, and Yohji was starting to get uneasy.

"My father," Aya paused, reached up a hand to tug on his hair, and went on, "he taught me better. He did. I swear. And I could hear him…and my sister, my job, my responsibility… I thought…I thought I couldn't do it again, not even for her. I failed. Always failed."

Yohji wanted to think about that, but Aya was moving. Both hands came up now, tangling in his hair and pulling hard. Yohji reached, and Aya pulled away, his back hitting the headboard.

"Aya…I'm not gonna hurt you."

"I know," the boy whined, pulling all the harder on his hair.

Deciding to go with the words and not the actions that seemed to contradict them, Yohji reached again. Aya shivered but didn't move. Gently he cupped his hands over smaller, paler ones, holding them still until Aya's fingers started to relax. His own body was tense as he carefully pulled Aya's hands away and put them back on the bedspread. Next he reached for Aya's chin, lifting it just a little.

Again it surprised him that there were no tears; purple eyes blinked open and, though uncertain, held his own.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Yes." It was shaky whisper.

"Alright."

Thinking he had done about as much damage as good, Yohji sighed and got off the bed. Aya watched him. He looked ready to fall over, more tired than ever. His eyes actually closed, snapped open , and threatened to close again. If Yohji hadn't been so stressed out, it would have made him smile.

"Go to sleep, princess," he said, grabbing a pair of sweatpants from his drawer. "I'm going downstairs to the couch."

He was to the door before he thought he heard Aya say something. Turning back, he looked, wondering if he had imagined it, "Huh?"

"It's cold when you're not here."

* * *

Yohji woke up feeling overheated. Freeing a hand from the thick covers, he pushed his damp hair away face before trying to shove the layers of blankets away. He never slept with so much on top of him and was at a loss as to his new habit until he felt something shift and move closer to him.

Aya.

He looked as much to the left as he could, a process made difficult by the head wedged under his chin. As it was, he could only catch a glimpse of red hair poking up from under the blankets.

Not quite on top of him, Aya was curled close to his side. Flat on his back, Yohji had one arm wrapped around thin shoulders and could feel one of Aya's wrapped tightly around his waist.

As much of a disaster as their chat seemed to have been, it had gotten him this far, thought maybe that was simply because Aya was cold. The boy had been almost cool to the touch, and after his plea for Yohji to stay, the blonde had found a few extra blankets to add to their bed. After laying down, he had been treated to a hesitant hand on his shoulder and soon had a chilled redhead in his arms. There was a lot to work on, but Yohji felt at least one thing was right with the world. As if in agreement, Aya made a small noise and snuggled closer.

~tbc~

Notes: I thought we could use a few warm fuzzies. Of course, the slug wants to eat them…quick, give him something else to snack on or it's back to the angst!


	69. Gauge Me

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Gauge Me

* * *

Yohji put out his cigarette as Aya walked back into the room. Fresh from the shower, his pale skin was lightly flushed with pink as he stood near the closet wearing only a white towel around his thin hips.

After taking a moment to stand and stretch, Yohji walked over to consider the wardrobe that occupied half his closet. There were at least three things he would like to put Aya in, but his early morning considerations gave him pause. He thought, for what had to be the hundredth time, he might have been going about certain things a little wrong. Okay, more like going at a lot of things ass backwards.

But he could fix that.

"You chose your own clothes yesterday?"

"Yes, Yohji. I'm—"

"Don't apologize," he interrupted. "You looked good. I think you can do that for now on. Right?"

Aya hesitated, had clutching at the towel.

"Yes?"

"Yes."

* * *

Nagi picked up his satchel from the small table in the kitchen. Opening it up, he made sure he enough money for the day, then placed it over his shoulder as he got ready to leave the hotel suite. He got no farther than the entranceway.

Crawford stood there, polishing his glasses, his shoes already on and his black briefcase beside his feet.

"Today?" Nagi questioned, careful to keep any emotion out of his voice.

Placing his glasses back on, Crawford nodded.

Nagi placed his satchel on the floor and went to change. It wouldn't do to meet Takatori in a pair of jeans and a sweater.

He had been annoyed at first that the man was making them wait so long, putting off their meeting for weeks as they shouldered the bills of living in a strange city. But then Crawford had sent him out to see it. It hadn't taken long for Nagi to realize that he loved much of Paris. Not all of it, because he hated the crowds that lingered in popular restaurants and packed themselves onto the metro, but he liked the quiet spots, the old buildings, the catacombs. Easily he had bypassed security and spent hours wandering around under the city or reading old documents or sitting at out of the way cafes just watching the normals.

Schuldig would call him silly, or something more cruel, but Nagi liked pretending, every once in a while, that he was someone else entirely.

But Crawford was waiting.

* * *

Yohji had come into the kitchen quite pleased with himself. Despite the quiet misgivings in the back of his mind, he had embarked on using his monumental fuck up as a springboard to giving Aya another degree of independence, stepping a little more out of the way to give the boy a more sure footing in the house. In theory, if Aya had more control over his own life, he wouldn't feel so confused and unsure about what Yohji wanted.

Of course, theory liked to bite Yohji in the ass.

He was convinced that it would work at seven-thirty.

By eight, not so much. A major kink had been thrown into this plan when they started talking about breakfast. The subject itself had been innocuous enough, but after a particularly loud grumble from Aya's stomach and more than a few prying questions, the blonde discovered that his charge hadn't eaten much of anything in the last two days. A few bites of noodles did not count as a meal. How could Aya be trusted to take care of himself if he didn't take enough initiative to get food when he was hungry? A five year old knew how to do that!

"Sit down," he pulled out a chair, ordering Aya to sit before he even thought it through. Too frustrated to find the right words, Yohji let it go when Aya did what he asked and took a seat in the chair. Though the boy's confused expression changed quickly to impassivity, purple eyes continued to follow him around the kitchen, obviously trying to figure out what he was worked up about; it was all too clear that Aya didn't have much of a notion what had upset him, and that did not bode well at all for the boy's ability to manage his own affairs.

Expending his frustration by pulling vegetables and eggs out of the fridge with more force than necessary, Yohji brought them to the counter and paused to take a deep breath. If he fixed this by himself, he wasn't going to do Aya much good, but if he helped Aya fix it, maybe he could. Teach a man to fish and all that shit.

"Here," he sat a cutting board on the table in front of the redhead. Aya's gaze immediately shifted to it. Yohji quickly deposited two peppers and a knife there. "Can you slice those up?"

"Yes, Yohji."

Well, the response wasn't ideal, but Aya was carefully rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt which had to indicate some kind of personal forethought. Or some memorized rule, his mind put in rather unhelpfully. Yohji huffed at it and went to get a bowl. Positioning himself so he could watch as he beat the eggs, Yohji was surprised to see Aya efficiently and quickly dice the peppers, neatly scraping the meager leftover to one side of the board.

Yohji had half expected him to cut his fingers with the knife.

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, he sat down his eggs and put the other vegetables in front of Aya, not even bothering with a cover as he watched the boy deal with the tomatoes and mushrooms just as easily. It seemed Aya's affinity for sharp things did not end with his sword.

"You ever cook before?" Yohji asked. Aya nodded yes but wasn't forthcoming with any details. "Can you make an omelet?"

Aya stared at him for a few seconds, then, "Maybe. It's been…"

Here he shook his head. Yohji would be glad when the boy could make it through whole thoughts, let alone conversations, without his lack of confidence getting the better of him.

"Want to try it?"

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Yohji found himself pleasantly surprised. He took the fork out of mouth only long enough to chew, quickly shoving in another bite. He had been more than a little leery when Aya had starting eying their meager spice rack, but he had taken a leap of faith and left the redhead to it, sitting at the table and vowing to eat whatever it was that arrived in front of him.

Seriously, it could have been fruit loops with fish sauce and he would have got it down somehow. Fortunately, it wasn't an issue. Aya, it seemed, was a good cook. Better than Yohji, maybe, especially if his unknown repertoire extended beyond omelets and spaghetti.

"It's good," he confirmed, seeing Aya watching him cautiously from across the table, his own food untouched. Refusing to tell him to eat—that was a bridge they had crossed and burnt, hopefully—Yohji attended to his own plate. Eventually Aya seemed to decide and picked up his fork

"Thank you," he said, quietly.

Surprised at the unexpected addition to the conversation, Yohji took the opportunity it presented and launched in to what he had to say.

"What do you like to have for breakfast?"

Had they really made it a month without that question coming up? Not for the first time, Yohji marveled at how little he knew about the other.

Then, as always, he realized why; talking to Aya was like pulling teeth, a slow, nearly painful process.

It was no great surprise that Aya clammed up at the question. Any hint that the boy actually had opinions, likes, or dislikes met with rather stony silence. Now, though, Yohji was learning (albeit slowly) to get around it, mostly by bearing with it. So he sat, just looking at Aya who in turn looked at his plate.

"Rice," the boy finally said, as if he had spent the silent time sorting through his own thoughts.

"Okay, we can do that," Yohji agreed with a smile. It was a little forced, he knew; patience was not Yohji's virtue of choice, and putting it to work so early in the morning wasn't easy. "There's a rice cooker in the bottom cabinet; it's pretty simple, add water and push the button. And there's always rice in the one over there. Omi's got this little plastic thing that can microwave it too."

If he hadn't been paying attention, Yohji would have missed it, but with the boy's every reaction currently under his scrutiny, he caught the slight wrinkling of Aya's nose at this last comment, like he had briefly thought of something distinctly unappealing. It seemed microwave rice did not suit.

"What do you like with it?"

Again silence fell over the kitchen. Yohji huffed a little and lit a cigarette; Omi wasn't around, and it wasn't like Aya was going to bitch at him about it.

"Soup, maybe," Aya said, glancing up like he was checking his answer in Yohji's eyes.

"There's some instant stuff around here someplace, but if you want anything fancier, we'll have to go shopping. The point is, there's always food here. Remember the money we gave Omi from your check?"

"Yes."

"Well, part of that pays for food. We all buy our own special stuff, but most of the basics are fair game. As long as you don't eat Omi's marshmallows or drink Ken's sports drinks—the disgusting blue things in the bottom of the fridge—you'll be fine. Stove, microwave—use whatever you want."

Aya was listening, but whether or not he was making the inferences Yohji wanted was a mystery.

"Get it, Aya?"

The boy thought about it for a second, then shook his head, no. He looked down at his lap as he worried the bandaged wrist of his left hand.

"When you're hungry, come get something. You don't have to wait if I'm not up or something. We all kind of eat supper together, but everything else is a self-serve kind of deal, so it's best to get used to it."

That seemed to push Aya even deeper into thought, and Yohji wasn't sure if anything else got through at all.

* * *

His life was seriously fucked up.

This was not a new conclusion, but Aya couldn't help realizing it over and over again.

He had spent a surreal morning with Yohji whose attitude towards him had taken another turn. Previously content to dress and feed Aya, he had set about letting the redhead do it for himself. While grateful for the opportunity, Aya was shocked at the blonde's doubts of his most basic skills.

Of course, he could dress himself. Of course, he could slice a damn pepper.

And what was that ridiculous discussion of how the kitchen worked?

But it wasn't Yohji he was really mad at. What infuriated Aya was that the man's doubts had every basis in fact. Hadn't he struggled to find something to wear? And hadn't he been afraid to touch the food that hadn't been specifically okayed?

That wasn't normal.

If the horrid scene in the bedroom with Yohji had done anything (besides utterly humiliating him and setting on some kind of breakdown), it had taught him that Yohji did want him to be somewhat normal.

And he failed.

Normal was one of many concepts that continued to crystallize in his thoughts. It was as if the many ideas he had previously held had been crushed into fine powder by his time…there. Now, as his body continued to recover, as he was given food and rest and an opportunity to think of something besides pain, things were slowly becoming clearer.

Not that it was simple. There were many fragments, and he could only start to put them together when his emotions were calm enough to allow it.

Aya hadn't always been like that, with his feelings shifting from one extreme to the other, strong enough to put him off balance as he failed to process what was going on around him. He had been calm, collected, maybe a little cool, but he remembered laughing and having a good time with close friends. Though flashes of temper had not been unusual, being honestly inherited from his mother, there had been no overwhelming despair, and certainly not so much of this confusion.

He had been decisive, whether right or wrong.

It was frustrating, to be tangled in knots over the smallest thing. What to wear. When to speak. Whether or not to tell Yohji that he liked miso soup for breakfast.

But, despite the fact that he accepted that Yohji wasn't going to hurt him—and he did accept this—his emotions did not respond to this logic, leaping instead at the shadows of remembered punishments, forcing a hundred painful what-ifs into his mind and incapacitating him.

And always there was the thought of Schuldig coming back. Aya knew better than to think the passage of several quiet weeks meant the man had gone away. Life, especially his, did not work that way. Schuldig would come back, of that he had no doubt. What he couldn't fathom now was what would happen.

Aya couldn't fight him. First because of what he was, that strange ability to read thoughts and induce a pain beyond any headache he had ever experienced. Aya had tried to resist, but it had all been useless, hadn't it? Crawford had gotten what he wanted, and Schuldig as well. Beyond any powers, they had his sister.

Despite his recent doubts, he couldn't let her go. She was all he had, the last vestige of his old life.

The more he thought about it, the more Aya desired some kind of plan. It was dangerous and risky and probably impossible, but he wondered if he couldn't free her somehow. Yohji thought they could find her, but, then again, he didn't know exactly who he would be facing.

Aya would do anything to have her back, but he didn't know if he could do anything at all.

~tbc~

Notes: There's lots of plot next chapter (finally!). I hope you're all still enjoying this, and thank you so much for reading!


	70. Grill Me

Notes: Sorry for the delay! The author has once again been sick…seriously, if I don't get better soon, they're gonna put me down. Anyway, to make up for the lapse, here's a long chapter that actually has plot, yay!

* * *

Chapter Seventy: Grill Me

* * *

"Sit down, please," Omi motioned to the couch, watching as Aya settled stiffly close to one end. Yohji, who never seemed very far away from the redhead, took the invitation to include him as well and dropped onto the center cushion, long legs stretched out in front of him. As relaxed as his posture was, there was a slight narrowing of green eyes as he stared not at Omi, but at the manila folder in his lap.

Nothing good came in folders, they had all decided, and while Omi would have liked to avoid presenting this in one, the collection of documents demanded the treatment. And really, it wasn't pleasant news, so perhaps it was fitting. Resting the file against his bare knees, he sat up a little straighter in the chair, wishing Aya had chosen to sit on the end of the couch closest to him rather than the exact opposite; as softly as the boy tended to talk, it might make things difficult. Not to mention the arrangement put Yohji in the middle of everything.

"Yohji-kun, don't you have something to do?" he hinted politely, catching the blonde's eye and making it clear he would prefer to talk with Aya privately.

"Nope," Yohji answered, all smiles and feigned contentment. From the moment Omi had asked Aya to join him in the mission room, the older man had been silently antagonistic.

Knowing there was little hope of budging Yohji once he had made up his mind on something (especially if that something had to do with the protection of someone else), Omi tried a slightly less innocuous request.

"Could you get us something to drink, then? Maybe some tea?"

He was eyes suspiciously, "This gonna take that long?"

"Yes."

"Don't start without me."

"Yohji-kun…"

"Tea, right. Going."

He did go, but the casual pace at which he took the steps was not enough to convince Omi that he had very long. Not that he didn't want Yohji to hear things, but it would be so much better if he could get some details from Aya and deal with the boy first before confronting Yohji's rather unpredictable reactions.

"Aya-kun," he began, pausing in surprise as he looked up to find Aya's eyes on him. He hadn't noticed before, with all the time the boy spent staring at the floor, but they were a strikingly odd color; perhaps it was the red tint of Aya's hair that made them look purple in the light of the nearby lamp, but he wasn't sure.

Covering with a smile, Omi started again.

"Are you feeling better?"

Aya nodded, unease reading in his movements.

"Good. It's time we had a little chat."

* * *

Yohji glared at the tea kettle as if the mere force of his gaze could make the water boil faster.

To say he didn't like the fact that Omi was getting rid of him was an understatement. He knew that the little twerp was going to try to pump Aya for information while he was gone. While he wanted that information just as badly, well, almost, he wasn't willing to traumatize Aya anymore at the moment.

And did Omi really think he had a better chance of talking to the boy _without_ Yohji's help? Bullshit. Aya barely talked to anyone else.

Shoving his loose hair back from his face, Yohji sighed and glared some more at the unsuspecting kettle.

* * *

This wasn't going well. As much as he had tried to keep it light, Omi could almost feel himself slipping into mission mode. His smile felt false, and he wondered if his drive for details was showing through. Aya was at the very least suspicious, but Omi suspected he was suspicious of everything. So far he hadn't gotten two words out of the younger boy, and they hadn't moved beyond small talk.

"How are your lessons going?"

Again Aya nodded, the motion apparently meaning they were going well.

"Ken said the two of you practiced yesterday."

Another nod. There was something in the eyes now, but Omi wasn't sure what it was.

"He said you did really good."

Nothing there, just a level stare. It was unnerving. Aya rarely looked at anyone for long, and Omi didn't think he liked it.

Deciding that this wasn't doing anything, Omi took another route.

"What's your real name?"

Purple eyes went wide, then finally fled his own, focusing on Aya's lap while his left hand came up to tug on the wide collar around his neck.

"My name is Aya."

* * *

Tray carefully balanced over one arm, Yohji started down the stairs.

"I'm not a person you want to lie to."

Though Omi's voice was quiet, there was enough unspoken threat to make him hurry down the steps, tea kept from spilling only by natural instinct and not conscious attention.

Thankfully Omi was still in his chair, not close enough to Aya to actually be threatening the boy. Had he been, Yohji wasn't exactly sure what he would have done, but it wouldn't have been good.

Now, as he settled the tray on the low coffee table in front of the couch, they both looked up at him. Omi's look was one of reserved aggravation, and Aya's was a shifting mix of relief and anxiety. Putting himself deliberately between them, Yohji resumed his seat. No one touched the tea.

"What're we talking about?" he asked.

Omi sighed and frowned. Yohji hated it when he looked like that, like Manx when they asked too many questions about a mission. As much as he loved Omi, and as good as the kid was, he had picked up more than a few bad habits.

"We're talking about Aya," Omi answered. "I did some research, and there are some surprising gaps."

Well, shit. Gaps were bad, especially if Omi couldn't get the info. It could be a number of things, but on the top of the list was the possibility that Aya might be involved in something big, like Kritiker. Or worse. Yohji could only hope the organization had gotten to Aya's past first, creating those blank spots that had Omi so concerned.

"I need you to give me some information, Aya-kun. I need to know about your past, how you got here—"

"Yohji brought me here."

Yohji couldn't help but smile at the remark, almost proud that Aya could snap at someone who wasn't him. Better, the boy didn't follow it with any type of apology. To Omi's credit, he didn't seem flustered, merely shifting the folder and pulling out a piece of paper.

"No birth certificate. No tax numbers. No dental records. I did find junior high records for Aya Fujimiya, but that's not you, is it?"

"What's he talking about?" Yohji turned towards Aya, suddenly fearful that the boy had been lying to him all along. Maybe Omi had been right, that the kid was actually a spy. The thought made his whole body tighten with tension and his voice rough with anger. "Aya, what's he talking about?"

"I…I…he, they…my name is Aya."

There was a desperation in his voice, and Yohji's fear fled as quickly as it had come. This wasn't a captured spy. Though it was now entirely obvious that Aya _was_ lying to him, this was the same voice he used to tell Yohji that he wanted to keep on that damn collar. He broke in before Omi could speak.

"Did he tell you to say that? Your master?"

Aya looked up at him then, expression unreadable, "Yes."

"Okay," Yohji debated for a second, "Well, you said it. You have another name?"

"No," Aya answered, fingers pulling at the silver ring at the front of his neck in yet another nervous gesture. At least he wasn't pulling his hair.

Yohji sighed, but before he could sort through the mess, Omi reached over him to shove the paper into Aya's lap. For a second it laid there, then it was snatched up by pale hands. Aya was perfectly still as he stared at it, until he started to shiver slightly.

Yohji, sitting close now, looked over his shoulder. It was a picture, printed out from the computer with a few lines crossing it where the ink cartridge had failed to fill in the image. But overall it was clear. There was the face and shoulders of a young girl with dark braids, dark eyes, and a charming smile. She flashed the 'victory' sign as she grinned at the camera.

"Aya."

It was a hushed whisper that escaped the redhead's lips. His trembling hand reached to touch the printed cheek, like it might feel differently beneath his fingers. He didn't look anything like the girl in the picture, but Yohji knew who she was.

"Your sister," he said.

Again Aya's head snapped up. He took a sudden breath as he nodded.

"That's Aya?" Yohji asked, already knowing the answer but hoping to glean some insight as to why his Aya was using the girl's name.

Purple eyes flicked from him to Omi and back again, but the boy didn't answer.

"You can trust him. You've got to trust us…" he floundered when he wanted to put in the boy's name.

"My master—"

"Fuck him!" Yohji tossed up a hand, unable to resist an outburst at Aya being controlled by some absent bastard, "Don't you get it? There's no way in hell we're letting you go back!"

Aya looked startled, but he clutched tight at the paper in his hands.

"You're staying, got it? There's no way I'm letting that sick fuck touch you ever again—"

"Yohji," Omi put in, a stern voice trying to cut off his tirade.

"Wait a damn minute," he replied. "This is important. We'll keep you safe, Aya, whatever your name is, hell, I'll just call you princess if it comes to that—the thing is, you're with us now. Kritiker's its own tangled mess of shit, but Weiss is just us, and we watch each other's backs. You've got to trust us, and we've got to trust you. No bullshit.

"Stop thinking that these guys are gonna come back and get you. They'll have to go through me first. And Omi here won't be far behind. But you can't hide things.

"Plus," he let his voice fall into a softer cadence, "Omi's our research guy—if you didn't figure that out already—

he needs to know so he can try to find her."

"Aya?"

"Yeah," Yohji answered, slightly awed by the tremulous quality of the deep voice. "If anyone can do it, Omi can, but you've got to—"

"Anything," the boy said suddenly, nodding his head vigorously and sitting up straighter, the picture clutched in his lap, "I'll do anything."

Not for the first time, Yohji felt chilled by the utter conviction of those words.

"Just tell us the truth," he emphasized the just. Again Aya nodded, his eyes back on the page. Yohji turned to Omi, finding the younger blonde intent upon their conversation. He made a small gesture with his head, inviting him to take a turn.

Besides, that would teach the brat to try to talk to Aya without him.

"Aya-kun," Omi started, obviously plagued by the same inability to find a better name that Yohji was, "how old is she?"

There was no response, and they both watched as Aya just stared at the page. Yohji wondered how long it had been since he had seen the girl; he seemed so awed by just the image. Omi looked put out, but the older man doubted Aya was being contrary. He looked mesmerized.

He didn't want to, but with a sigh, Yohji reached out to tug on the paper. There was a moment of resistance, but Aya, obviously trained against resistance, let it go. Still, the quiet whine he made almost caused Yohji to give it back.

"You can keep it," he promised, not about to consult Omi on the matter with Aya looking after it so piteously. "Talk to Omi first, then you can have it back."

It took a few seconds for Aya to process that and nod. He turned his attention to Omi, glancing back only long enough to watch Yohji sit the precious picture aside. For his part, Yohji thought his hard work was done, and after grabbing one cooling mug of tea, settled back on the couch to listen.

"How old is your sister now?"

"Fourteen."

"Her name's Aya?"

"Yes."

"And your name's Ran?"

Aya started at that.

"I…Aya…" Looking flustered, Aya shook his head and tugged on his hair. Instantly Yohji put down his cup and caught the hand and held on to it.

Omi pulled another page from the folder, and once again Yohji examined it while it sat in Aya's lap.

It was a newspaper article this time. Across the top was the bold headline, "Business Scandal Ends in Death." Rather than scan the tiny columns of print below, Yohji looked at the picture. Two men shook hands in front of a partially obscured sign; one looked oddly familiar, but he couldn't place him or relate him to the title. He thought he might read it, but Aya handed it quickly back to Omi who began, much to Aya's discomfort, to read part of it aloud.

"While Takatori-san regrets the unfortunate events that befell Fujimiya and his family, he acknowledges that the business leader was at fault. Recently revealed to have been involved in illegal experiments of genetic engineering, Fujimiya is thought to have encouraged the use of human tests subjects, many of whom did not agree to the dangerous tests beforehand. This information having been leaked, it is suspected that an enraged subject thought to get revenge on Fujimiya by—"

"Stop it," Yohji demanded, voice flat. Aya's hand was shaking in his own. "Shit, Omi, go a little slower."

"I just wanted him to know I knew about it," the blonde defended.

"He knows, okay?"

"Yes," Omi answered, sounding contrite, if only slightly. "But I need to know—"

"He didn't do it," Aya said suddenly, quietly. "Father didn't do anything to those people."

"Can you start at the beginning?" Yohji asked, feeling out of the loop.

No, Aya shook his head.

"Try," he suggested in return.

"Your father owned a business," Omi began instead. Then, almost an aside to Yohji, "He was _very_ successful."

Rich, he meant. Whether or not it was simply a comment on the status of Aya's family or meant to imply something more, Yohji wasn't sure. Did Omi suspect the wealth was ill-gotten?

"Vaccines, right? That's what Sanda specialized in, at least until Fujimiya-san chose to expand."

"He didn't," Aya put in, a slight snap in his voice, though the volume was still at a minimum.

"He didn't choose to merge with Muribai and take up genetic studies?" Omi questioned.

Yohji was beginning to suspect there was something very important he was missing out on. What did it matter what Aya's father had done? Had he killed someone? Was that what the 'death' in the headline was about, and, more importantly, had it resulted in Aya's situation?

"No," Aya replied, "He did that."

"Your father."

"Takatori."

There was malice in the word, hissed between clenched teeth. For a second, Yohji thought perhaps he had finally come upon the name of Aya's mysterious master, but he doubted Aya would have let it slip so easily or displayed such an obvious dislike towards him.

Omi was again trying to catch Yohji's eye, demanding his attention to the name. What for? Gods, he needed some kind of translator for this conversation. He might have asked, but it seemed Omi had finally hit upon one of those rare subjects on which Aya was willing to talk. Both of them knew well enough to shut up and listen, taking close note since it was unlikely any of it would be repeated.

"Takatori tricked Father. He was always around…always had been, for as long as I could remember. He was powerful, and he invested heavily in the company; he pushed a merger, and Father couldn't risk displeasing him. Once he acquired Muribai through our business, he fired their board and installed his own _men_."

Absently, Yohji realized Aya had a larger vocabulary than he had expected.

"He let them do experiments. Horrible things. Father didn't know, not for many years. I think…I think they gave false reports. He never said much about it. When he found out what was going on, he was angry. He didn't…he…Father was very serious about protecting human rights.

"Takatori said it would damage the company to stop, and when Father threatened to go to the press, he…

"He…," Aya tried again, but there was no breath behind the word. He was shaking now, all over, like he had stood too long in the snow.

"Easy," Yohji directed, releasing his captured hand long enough to press his own mug of tea into it. Aya clasped the lukewarm mug with both hands, and Yohji was forced to steady the bottom of it in order to get it to his lips without dropping. "It's okay."

"It'll be easier to get it all done at once," Omi put in at a little above a whisper, thwarting Yohji's half-formed plans of a break. Truth be told, he wanted to know how all this went together, the PI part of him clamoring for some connections. But Aya looked so worn out as he relinquished the cup, wrapping his arms around his middle and depriving Yohji of his hand.

"What happened?" he asked, saving Omi from being the bad guy all the time.

"Takatori."

Well, like that explained it all. He waited, and Aya finally unclenched his teeth and went on, some of the shivering seeming to subside even if there was a disturbingly distant tint to his eyes.

"She wanted to go to the festival…it was the last one before school started. Mother…Mother didn't want her to go alone, and…it was my responsibility. I…I…her birthday, it was almost Aya-chan's birthday. She was going to be a teenager, and she didn't want me to go along."

Yohji pulled out a cigarette and rolled it between his fingers, contemplating the seemingly unrelated narrative.

"Something happened…rain. It rained. We went back, even though it stopped. She was wearing a new yukata and didn't want…wait."

He stopped, prying one hand from his side to run it over his face. He left it there as he leaned forward, elbow propped on one thin knee and head held up by that hand.

"They were dead. I went in first, and they were dead," he said it quickly, and Yohji wondered if he was trying to block out the memories. "I saw it, too. I saw it and told her to run."

"What?" Omi asked.

"A bomb."

"No shit?" Yohji couldn't help it. Normal people didn't see things like that. He was beginning to suspect Aya was a little less normal than even he had suspected.

Aya made no effort to reply to him, nor to continue. They were all quiet for over two minutes, Omi and Yohji trading looks and silently trying to figure out how to get the boy going again. They finally went for straight forward.

"What happened?"

A short, unpleasant syllable of laughter, "It exploded."

Yohji didn't like that. It didn't sound like the Aya he had gotten used to, and he was starting to think they were pushing him too far, too quickly after the last emotional ordeal.

"We were in the hall…and he came…right before. They said…I know he was there."

That made no sense. A check with Omi confirmed that the other was just as confused.

"Who is _he_?" Yohji asked.

Still hiding behind his hand, Aya answered, "I told you about him. The one who works for my...Master. He saved us. He took us outside. There was debris…but we would have…I saw her, Aya-chan, I saw her get up. He was gone. I…got caught in it somehow, and she…something happened…I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Aya…"

"I'm sorry, I don't know."

"It's okay."

"I would tell you…I…I don't know, Yohji."

"It's fine, just tell what you remember."

"Hospital. A strange… They…they told me things, Aya-chan was hurt. She wasn't waking up…coma. They used that word over and over, coma. I…they wanted money. I…Father's accounts…there was nothing I could do. They said…I wasn't…I couldn't."

Aya would have been barely fifteen, as Yohji figured it. Homeless. Broke. With a seriously injured sister.

"What did you do?"

"I…he…he took me away."

"Takatori?" Omi asked.

"One of his men. My…master."

"Who?" Omi questioned quickly, and Yohji admitted he was eager for the information. But Aya just shook his head.

"He'll kill her," he said.

Omi opened his mouth, but Yohji waved him off. They were getting a lot, and pushing would probably shut Aya up all together.

"What did he do?" he tried instead.

Suddenly Aya looked up at him, exhausted and desperate and pleading, "Don't send me back, Yohji."

For a second all he could do was shake his head in denial. How many times did he have to say it?

"I won't."

Those strange eyes closed, the expression fading. Aya's head dropped forward, landing softly on Yohji's shoulder. There was one more shuddering breath, and then he was still save for gentle breathing.

* * *

Omi wasn't quite sure what to say about that.

"Is he asleep?" he finally asked when Aya didn't move.

"Yeah," Yohji just smiled, settling the boy a little more against him and getting an arm around his thin shoulders. With his free hand he brushed back Aya's ragged bangs, revealing a face that was slightly drawn even in sleep. "I think we wore him out."

Omi sighed, shuffling his folder. There were other things there, odds and ends he had collected. Making a decision, he handed them over to Yohji. The other nodded in appreciation, laying the folder beside his leg.

"Think he's telling the truth?"

Yohji nodded, "Have to be a hell of an actor not to be."

He stood looking at the boy for a minute. Aya had come a long way, but he was still thin and fragile-looking. Ken said he was getting good, very good, with his weapon, but Omi wondered if he would be truly fit for a mission. There were, after all, more than physical concerns. Aya struggled through conversations, could he make it through killing someone?

It wasn't a pretty question.

Omi didn't want him to get hurt, but he couldn't let the rest of them get hurt either.

"He'll do it," Yohji said solemnly, and Omi wondered if he had spoken out loud. The blond lit his cigarette one-handed, exhaling as he looked up at him. "He made it through all that."

~tbc~


	71. Guess Me

Notes: Sorry for the delay, especially since so many of you took time to review the last chapter! The evil doctor (no, not the fun kind of evil, either) finally let me out of the hospital, so I thought I'd post a quick chapter to tide every over until I get a longer one in order.

* * *

Chapter Seventy-One: Guess Me

* * *

Takatori Reiji didn't stand when they entered the office. He made no pleasantries and didn't even offer them a chair. Sitting behind an oversized wooden desk, big hands sorting through stacks of papers, he barely nodded in acknowledgement of their presence.

Though Crawford's face remained unchanged, it was clear he was angry at the slight. It didn't show in the stiff set of his shoulders, or the easy way he approached, but Nagi knew it just the same. It had become second nature to find a corner of the room, to stand silently while Crawford approached. That's why the man brought him; Nagi knew how to stay out of the way.

"Good afternoon," Crawford greeted, offering a mannerly bow with his right arm folded elegantly across his stomach.

Takatori grunted in reply, then, "Tell me about the girl."

Aggravated at the lack of manners, Nagi debated if he could pick up the desk and beat the man over the head with it. Well, not so much if he could do it as if he could get away with it. He had spent less than an hour total in Takatori's presence, but the thought of reducing him to a stain on the carpet struck Nagi as a fine idea. Still, as satisfying as that would be, Crawford would be upset.

"She is as expected."

"Are there any problems I should know about?"

"No, sir."

"The boy is out of the way?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Takatori pressed his lips together and leaned back in the heavy chair. His hands rested on the arms and he looked at Crawford for the first time, "The elder Fujimiya proved to be quite a thorn in my side; I will not have his brat ruin this. I still believe we should kill him."

"Sir, I cannot—"

"Enough. I don't want to hear it again. I said I would trust your visions, Oracle, at least until they are proven wrong. I am more concerned with the girl, at any rate. Where is she?"

"She is safe."

"And is she ready?"

"Almost. There have been a few setbacks in interpreting the text, but—"

"Why didn't you mention this before! I said I wanted to be informed of every problem. Do not cross me Oracle, or—"

"It is a minor issue, Takatori-san, not worth your time. I assure you."

Having half-risen in anger, the older man sank back in his chair, a lingering redness of his face the only hint of the near explosion.

"Despite our best attempts, neither the Paris nor the Berlin laboratories have managed to produce another suitable vessel. Masafumi will continue in his attempt, but at the moment, the girl is our only hope of channeling the power." Takatori's dark eyes gleamed as he spoke, and he stared at Crawford as if judging him of some heinous crime. "I will not tolerate any mistakes."

"No, sir."

"Masafumi will have the documents for you in a week. Take them back to Tokyo."

Their eyes remained locked for a few more seconds, then Takatori turned his chair away, facing the large windows and staring out over the bright city. He said nothing else, and it was clear that they were dismissed.

Crawford made a small motion with his hand, and Nagi followed him out of the office. He paused only after the heavy doors were closed behind them. Lifting his glasses off, Crawford took out a cloth and cleaned them.

"Arrogant ass," he spoke quietly but with conviction. There was no anger on his face, but he was far from pleased.

Nagi said nothing, but he shared the feeling, to be drug here and there at that human's whim, their own plans set aside for weeks merely to cater to his desires for a brief meeting. There was no need for it, and it was painfully clear that the only reason they were in France was to prove that he could make them wait on him.

Once Crawford replaced his glasses, they headed silently to the waiting town car. Directions were given, and they were on their way before Nagi decided Crawford was calm enough to risk a question.

"How much longer will we need him?"

A slight smile curled the edge of pale lips, "Not much longer, I think."

Nagi waited, making sure Crawford was done speaking; it wouldn't do to interrupt him.

"Why does he want the girl?"

"He read the reports and trusts them. Though Masufumi altered both unborn children, according to the data it is only the female fetus that should be affected. Takatori has made an assumption."

"But…he saw them."

"There's no accounting for fools," Crawford answered coldly.

"Will you give him the girl, then?"

Not that he cared, but Nagi liked to know what was going on. Crawford was rarely in the mood to discuss his plans, and Schuldig was less than helpful even though he seemed to know more about them. He was surprised when the dark haired man turned in his seat and offered his full attention; it made Nagi nervous, but he was careful to give no outward sign.

The cruel, little smile was back at the edge of Crawford's lips.

"I had almost forgotten."

Nagi didn't miss the almost, knowing very well that Crawford did not forget details. He didn't forget anything.

* * *

"Hey," Yohji spoke softly as he jostled the boy in his arms, "time to wake up."

Aya mumbled something and tried to snuggle down closer to his chest.

"Hey," he tried again, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice, "Come on. Omi made supper."

After a few more gentle shakes, Aya finally roused enough to raise his head and look at Yohji. His eyes blinked a few times, and his hair stood out at various angles, making him look even younger than he was.

"You awake, princess?"

For that he got a little glare. True, he was deliberately aggravating the other, but Yohji also wasn't sure precisely what to call the boy after the earlier revelation that he had been going by his sister's name.

Once he figured out what was going on, Aya sat up and pulled away. Slightly reluctant to lose him, Yohji still let him go, sitting still as the redhead repositioned himself further away on the couch and rubbed a hand over his face.

"Okay?" Yohji asked.

He nodded, yes. Yohji wasn't so sure. Still, it felt like some wall between them had been broken.

"You want to go upstairs, Ay—uh…" He sat for a second, hoping Aya would fill in the blank. It didn't happen, and Yohji found he wasn't even surprised. "Okay. Weird question. What do you want me to call you?"

Aya looked up at him again, and Yohji wondered if he was also thinking about his first day here, Yohji using the silly nickname, asking his name. At least things had gotten better, a little better. At least Aya was looking at him.

"Come on, Ay—" Now he smiled; sometimes it was just too much to stress over. "What did Omi say your name was? Ran?"

"No!"

The smile fell suddenly off Yohji's face, not at the word, but at the way Aya cringed after saying it.

"I'm sorry, Yohji," he said, quietly, "I just…I'm not."

It took a second, but Yohji worked it out, "You don't go by that anymore?"

Again Aya nodded, apparently not trusting himself to say anything.

"Aya, then?"

Another nod.

Yohji stood and stretched, reaching a hand back to help Aya off the couch.

"I can do that. Too late to change now, anyway. I'd just fuck it up all the time."

~tbc~


	72. Guard Me

Chapter Seventy-Two: Guard Me

* * *

All told, Yohji thought it was too early to be so sweaty, but, eh, it was Ken so no surprise.

After fishing out the creamer, the blonde stood back as a rather damp Ken unearthed a sports drink from the bottom of the fridge and stood with the door open to drink it. Only when the strange, blue stuff was half gone did he turn around and greet Yohji with a smile that didn't quite reach its normal level.

"Something wrong?" Yohji questioned as he sought the coffee maker, liberally filling the mug Omi had set out for him. He added his creamer and leaned against the counter to drink it; Ken took a seat at the table, making Yohji hope he would wipe the chair down later.

"No…I don't guess."

Yohji just looked at him, and Ken broke. If only everyone was so easy.

"Aya and me were practicing. He's…he's getting good."

"Hm," he answered, noncommittal.

"Really good."

"You said that before."

"Yeah, I know. It's just…I ought to be able to land a hit _sometime_."

* * *

Back in his dark jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt, Aya followed Yohji to the car.

"Here," the blonde said, going to the back to open the trunk. Aya hesitated, unsure at the sudden change in routine, but he went.

Yohji gestured to the trunk, wanting him to put his kendo bag inside. It was a tight fit, and he had to angle it just so. Yohji nodded and pulled two bundles from behind it before shutting the trunk.

"Here," he said again, handing one of them to Aya. "Are you up to it?"

Unsure what 'it' was, Aya just nodded. Whatever. He would do whatever he had to. There wasn't much time, and Yohji had promised to help him get Aya-chan back. It didn't matter what the man asked him for…even…yes, even that. He had done it before, and now, with not just his sister's wellbeing, but the actual possibility of finding her…

But Yohji wouldn't—

"Hey."

There was a little nudge to his arm, and Aya realized he had been staring at the roll of heavy material in his hands. He looked up, finding green eyes evaluating him above the lenses of Yohji's glasses.

"You okay?"

He nodded and made quick work of unfolding the material. A coat. It was dark and long, made of leather. He pushed his arms into the sleeves and settled it over his shoulders. Yohji reached, and he didn't flinch, now used to the man making adjustments to his clothes. Yohji was always gentle, was now, as he arranged the collar and fastened the two rows of buttons on the coat's front.

The sleeves were a little too long; it must be Yohji's. Carefully, the blonde took one hand then the other, lifting them so he could roll up the sleeves. That done, he turned back to click the remote lock on the car. Aya noticed that Yohji had donned a coat as well, and he felt a cold shock when he recognized it.

It was long and dark blue, hugging tight to the man's frame and zippered up the middle. The collar rested high on Yohji's neck, having no lapels, streamlined, Aya thought, not messy like so many of Yohji's outfits. On each arm was a strikingly white cross, bright against the dark fabric

He looked good. Strong.

Scary.

Aya pushed the thought down with vehemence. He wasn't scared of Yohji.

It didn't matter if he was wearing the same coat as the night he had bought Aya.

Not at all.

"Aya, okay?" he asked again.

"Yes."

* * *

"Wait" he directed. Aya stopped, frozen in place in the dark alley. Yohji nodded, approving his quick uptake of direction. "See," he explained, stepping away from the wall, out of the shadows so Aya could see him, "when you turn that way the light catches your face. If you've got your weapon, or anything that glows, you're visible."

Aya nodded and went back, crouching again behind the large dumpster. Yohji stepped back against the wall and waited.

It wasn't the most pleasant way to spend an evening, playing stalking games in a dark alley that smelled of trash and less intriguing things. But it wasn't the first time Yohji had whiled away the hours in such a place. And, hell, this time nobody was trying to kill him, and he wasn't drunk and throwing up in front of his date either, so maybe it wasn't so bad.

And there was Aya. He had been nervous, at first, but not so much as Yohji would have expected. Besides that, he was a hell of a quick study.

"Better?" Aya suddenly asked from right beside him. It took all Yohji's control not to jump. The boy was always quiet, but when trying his hand at skulking, he was eerily so.

"Yeah," Yohji granted easily, lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves. Not many people could sneak up on him, he hated it when they could, and he got the distinct impression that he'd just trained someone to do just that. "Pretty good. Let's go to the roof."

* * *

It was after three when they got back, but Aya was still wide awake. Yohji had watched him all the way home. He looked different, older, maybe, outfitted in the worn leather coat. His gloved hands had rested in his lap, clenching and unclenching at some thought Yohji didn't have access to.

He had praised Aya's skills, and the boy had deserved it. In one night, he had picked up a number of important techniques. Weiss wasn't all about killing, and it would be crucial that Aya know how to hide in the shadows, how to stay perfectly still, how to find the best angle to watch from but keep yourself hidden. There were bound to be differences when he had the sword with him, Yohji realized, and he had promised Aya they would do it again another night, letting the redhead bring along his weapon now that he had covered the basics.

"You ready for bed?" he asked as he watched Aya place his bag carefully in the corner. The redhead nodded, a vague reply; his attention had been caught by something outside the window, or in his own head. "Okay, you get your shower first."

When Aya didn't move, Yohji carefully approached behind him. He wanted to hug him, but after all they had happened between them, he didn't dare.

"What's the matter?"

There was a long pause, a moment subsumed in silence.

"I'm really going to do it," Aya whispered.

Yohji didn't know what to say. What did you tell someone who had just realized they were going to have to kill people?

With slow determination, Yohji took Aya's arm and turned him around so they faced each other. Purple eyes came up to his own, bright in the wash of moonlight from the window and full of questions that Aya would never ask and Yohji wouldn't have been able to answer anyway.

"It's okay," he promised as he settled his hands on Aya's shoulders. When that didn't settle the tumultuous look in the boy's eyes, Yohji cautiously drew the boy into a hug, pressing him gently against his own body. Aya still felt thin, too little to be doing this. His body was stiff, but for just second, then he all but collapsed against the taller man, hands holding tightly to Yohji's sides and he face pressed against the blonde's neck.

"It'll be okay," Yohji said again. "I won't let anything happen."

~tbc~

Notes: Review to encourage Aya (and the author)!


	73. Grab Me

Notes: A longer chapter this time, for all you lovely people who take time to review! Thank you!

Chapter warnings: NCS

* * *

Chapter Seventy-Three: Grab Me

* * *

"Good job, Aya-kun!"

Omi's voice was loud even in the mission room, and Yohji, already curious as to where Aya had gone, quickened his step in hopes of getting to see precisely what had the younger blonde so excited.

He wasn't quite quick enough, apparently. Walking through the open gym door, he found a smiling Omi picking up a number of darts from the floor; Aya stood a little bit away, watching cautiously. He looked good, almost healthy with the slight flush of exertion on his face. Even though he would probably always be on the thin side, now the hollows of his cheeks had smoothed out, and his arms were starting to pick up a bit of definition from his practice. If he would only pick up a bit more weight.

Hence his expedition to the basement. He had, under his own power no less, rolled out of bed at the ungodly hour of seven-thirty on a Saturday and made breakfast. Okay, so not so much made as went and bought, but, still.

Omi noticed him leaning against the doorframe and smiled, a little nervous, apparently; he should be, especially if he was throwing those things at Aya.

"Good morning, Yohji-kun! You're up early."

"What're you two doing?"

"Oh, uh," Omi laughed and hid a handful of darts behind his back. "Nothing much."

Yohji just shook his head, unable to hide a slight smile. For all his seriousness the other night, Omi was too much, looking like a kid hiding a piece of candy.

It wasn't really a secret that Omi and Ken had been training with Aya. Ken had been taking part since that first sparing session, and since Aya seemed to embrace the challenge, Yohji had pretty much left the brunette to it. He didn't know exactly how Omi had gotten in on the sessions, but it would be to Aya's benefit to know how to deal with projectiles, and also how Omi's weapon worked if the boy was going to serve as Aya's backup.

Not that Yohji had any intention of letting him. He and Aya were going together. End of story.

"Might as well show me," he told them.

Omi nodded, looking a bit sheepish as he drew out a rubber-tipped dart; Yohji didn't expect the same expression on Aya's face, but he still wasn't prepared for the cold, hard look the boy had aimed at Omi. The younger blonde didn't seem to take notice of it as he backed up.

Omi lifted a dart; Aya brought up his sheathed sword.

"Ready?"

A nod.

Omi tossed the dart with unerring accuracy. Just as it looked like it would land on Aya's shoulder, the redhead sidestepped, bringing up the sword so quickly Yohji had a little trouble figuring out just what had happened as the dart dropped to the ground. The sheath was in Aya's left hand now, bare sword in his right. Yohji saw the second round a little better, Aya stepping back and to the left in order to block the dart with the side of his blade. A third one clipped him on the arm, but he got the forth with the hilt of his sword.

That seemed to finish the demonstration.

"We've only been working on it a couple days," Omi offered. His smile was absent for a few beats, then back with a force when he turned to Yohji. "He's good, right?"

"Yeah, he's good."

* * *

"Don't make yourself sick," Yohji warned.

Aya stopped and looked up at him, a tiny bit of jelly clinging just to the side of his mouth. Yohji reached without thinking and wiped it off with his thumb, his better sense kicking in just before he stuck it in his own mouth. He wiped it on a napkin instead, handing another clean one to Aya.

The redhead nodded a little in thanks, wiped his mouth more thoroughly, then continued to eat. Not the healthiest choice, but Yohji was thrilled. They were cheap and easy to get (before nine a.m., anyway), and so far the doughnuts were the only food Aya had actually _asked_ for seconds of.

That was worth getting up for.

Next to him at the table, Yohji watched Aya finish the pastry then lick the end of his finger, cleaning off the last of the dark red jelly.

Yeah, that was definitely worth getting up for.

* * *

"How's the greenhouse?" Ken wondered casually as he leaned against the counter where Yohji was working.

"He's actually got shit growing out there."

"Yohji-kun," Omi chided, tilting his head toward the last of the fangirls. Oh, right, he wasn't supposed to offend the delicate sensibilities of the girls who wanted to grope him.

"I wanted to talk to you—" Omi broke off as the girls walked by. "Have a good evening!"

There was a collective sigh of relief when they were gone, Ken sagging a little more against the counter and Yohji propping his head on his hand as he sat behind the register. There was still an hour before closing, but customers should be few and far between.

"I wanted to talk to you, Yohji-kun, about Aya-kun."

"I haven't looked at the papers yet."

The look he got was censure masquerading as disappointment, like when he admitted to leaving a mission folder to the last minute.

"I haven't had time. He can't be there," Yohji waved off the criticism. Not the first time, not the last.

"Please read them. Besides that, though, his training is going well."

Yohji nodded, not really interested. Well, he was, but people kept telling him that. He had eyes.

Ken and Omi shared a look. He got the distinct impression he was missing something.

"Um, Yohji-kun, don't you think, well, don't you think it's going a little too well?"

Unsure what Omi was hinting at, Yohji lifted an eyebrow and waited for an explanation.

"It's only been five weeks, and he's…improved…a lot."

"I can barely land a hit on him," Ken repeated an earlier claim. Yohji felt like he was watching a television rerun, and the script wasn't that great the first time.

"And he blocks most of what I throw at him."

"The kid's got skills, so what?"

"In five weeks?" Omi reiterated.

"Not five weeks. He had kendo before, remember?" Yohji returned. Still, he was a more alert to the conversation, not that anyone else would know that from the way he leaned lazily on his hand as he talked. He didn't want to seem too concerned. It might ruin his reputation.

"It's not the same," Omi pronounced with conviction. "It's not, Yohji-kun. He's using a real sword for what's got to be the first time in his life. He's picking up basic defensive techniques, fist-fighting—"

"When the hell has he been—"

"You asked us to help," Ken cut in, no lightness in his voice now.

"He needs to know."

Yohji conceded, though not gracefully. Giving each of the men a glare over the edge of his shades, he turned again to stare out the window to turn over their words. They waited.

"So," he finally said without looking at them, "something finally goes right, and you two want to bitch about it."

* * *

"You want to go with me?" Omi asked, smiling, trying to be open and friendly. The attitude didn't seem to be helping. Despite practicing with him, Aya was still reserved during any other interaction, maybe even more so after their talk.

Aya looked around, just a subtle movement of his head, half hidden under his bangs. Looking for Yohji, Omi realized. He wondered if it was just so the blonde could provide an answer to his question or if Aya thought he was a threat.

Fortunately or not, Yohji was not in the living room at the moment. Omi knew the older man was busy in the shop, trying to clean up the dirt and plant and pot he had caused Ken to drop. That, in fact, was why he had come to get Aya, catching him at the bottom of the stairs. Omi wasn't exactly sure where he had been going, but the book in his hand suggested it was nothing more exciting than to the couch to read.

Omi had other plans. He needed to get Aya out of the house for two reasons. First, Yohji had to read those papers. The man had been right that Aya shouldn't be around , especially if Yohji decided to express his opinions (often done loudly with gratuitous swearing) over some piece of information. Second, he really needed more details those papers did not provide, and the only way of getting them was to convince Aya to talk to him.

"You'll like the park, Aya-kun. Or, if you want, we could go to the arcade. That's fun, right?"

No, Aya shook his head, actually taking a step back from him.

"What's the matter?"

Aya looked ready to run, and, without thinking, Omi reached out to grab his arm. Purple eyes went wide; for a second, Aya tensed, like he would pull away, but he didn't. Instead he dropped his head, eyes closed tight, trembling.

* * *

No, Aya thought, he didn't want to go anywhere, not with Omi. He couldn't go out without Yohji, not when Schuldig could be waiting to take him back.

He would go back upstairs and wait for Yohji.

No, wait. He didn't need to run. He could do this.

What should he say? How did he get Omi to leave him alone? Would Yohji be mad?

"What's the matter?"

Then Omi grabbed him.

* * *

_The bruising grip on his forearm disappeared suddenly as Crawford tossed him into the room. He lost his footing and went down on the stone floor, scraping his knees. He gathered himself as quickly as possible, kneeling, naked and already cold from the chilled room._

_Crawford advanced, grabbing the leash from where it dangled over his pressed thighs, yanking his head up, then, as Aya stared into angry, gold eyes, backhanding him hard across the cheek._

"_Slut. Feel like telling me no again?"_

_There was no anger in the voice, leaving it starling in its chilled expression of threats._

_Another hit, breaking his already tender lip and bringing the familiar taste of blood to his mouth._

"_You don't say no."_

_A kick to his stomach, making him cough, and another, knocking him off balance. Crawford's foot pressed in the middle of his back, forcing down, face-first into the cold floor. It wasn't very bright in the room, and all Aya could see were the dim stones._

_His arms were yanked backwards, ties tightly with something soft. Crawford's tie._

_Aya hated that. He hated everything._

_He wanted to fight, to drag himself off the floor and defend the shredded honor his father had died for. But…Aya-chan…_

"_You'll learn to listen," Crawford told him. Footsteps. A tiny part of Aya's mind hoped he was leaving, but it was sliver of an idea. _

"_I have a surprise for you, Ran. You'll like it."_

_Crawford knelt on one knee, next to Aya's head. A strong hand twisted in his still-long hair, wrapping around it and dragging his neck up at an uncomfortable angle. In his free hand was a knife, a long, eight-inch blade loomed over the wrapped handle._

"_You don't want me. You would rather die than fuck me?" Crawford sneered, throwing back the words Aya had carelessly hurled at him in a moment of thoughtless anger. "Fine. You'll fuck this instead."_

_Pain. Aya's head rebounded slightly off the floor as the man dropped his head onto it._

_He needed to run, but with his body tired and arms bound, Aya could do little more than wriggle like some pathetic worm._

"_Eager, aren't you," Crawford mocked in that icy tone. "Patience."_

_There was some shuffling—taking off his shirt, maybe. Aya couldn't tell where Crawford was until a hand ran over his exposed bottom. _

"_No," he whispered._

_The hand smacked, hard. Again._

"_You don't say no."_

_Then the knife handle was pressing against his entrance. He tried to move away, and Crawford grabbed his hip, dragging him back. The man forced it, shoving several inches inside, and when Aya cried out, roughly inserted the rest. _

_Aya felt something inside him tear and couldn't help the tears that came to his eyes. He hid his face against the stone floor, not wanting to give Crawford the satisfaction of seeing him cry__._

_The wrapped handle slid roughly against his insides, hardly lessened by the blood he could feel dripping down, slowly pooling between his legs. Crawford continued to thrust the handle inside him at a rough, measured pace, taking all the way out before forcing it back in._

_Aya felt bile rise into his mouth, and he swallowed hard, choking and trying to keep it down. He couldn't breathe._

"_You like it, Ran. How disgusting."_

_Aya hoped he died right then. He didn't want to look at anyone after this. Even Aya-chan. How could he ever—

* * *

_

"Aya! Look at me! What's the—"

"Y-Yohji?"

"Yeah," Yohji answered quietly as he finally remembered to breathe when the shaky voice answered him. Aya hadn't been responding there for a second. He had walked into the room just in time to see Omi make a grab for the boy's arm, too sudden, and generally a bad fucking plan.

Gently, careful of the trembling body he was holding up against his own, Yohji sat back on the steps, positioning Aya across his lap and brushing back red bangs to look in his eyes. The pupils were slightly dilated, and, worse, Aya looked scared shitless.

"Okay?"

Aya nodded, looking away.

Yohji wanted to talk about it. He wanted Aya to sit there, pulled close to his chest, and tell him exactly what he had been thinking about. There was little doubt it was some kind of flashback, the kind of shit that tortured the boy at night and, less frequently, during the day. A lot of the time, Aya could shake it off by himself, maybe with a tug at his hair or some other odd thing, preferring to go out to the greenhouse and work through it than talk.

He never told Yohji anything.

But this was a bad one, no doubt brought on by Omi's touch. Still, Yohji doubted Aya was suddenly going to spill his guts. He was not going to stress over that, not right now. He took action, instead, concentrating on getting Aya focused on the now.

"Come on," he spoke quietly, helping Aya to his feet. The boy still seemed out of it, and Yohji guided him to the soft armchair that had quickly become his spot in the living room. The blonde left him for just a second, grabbing the book Aya had dropped on the floor and coming back to press it into pale hands.

At least Aya had stopped shaking.

"Here, you were gonna read this, right?"

Aya nodded, looking at the book as if was something he hadn't seen before. Yohji sighed, unable to resist running a hand through Aya's hair and grateful when the boy didn't flinch from the touch.

"Want some tea or something?"

No, Aya shook his head again.

"Okay. I've got some work to do," he said quietly, "You sit here and read your book. I'll just be in the kitchen if you need me."

Again, Aya nodded, but made no move to open his book. Having learned to let it be, Yohji turned and headed to the adjoining room to give the boy some space. Omi, having silently witnessed the scene, followed.

"I'm sorry," he said as soon as they entered the dim kitchen.

Yohji hit the lights and got a beer, both actions done on instinct. He paused, put the beer back, and took out a soda instead.

"I was trying to help," Omi defended.

"Don't touch him, Omi," Yohji criticized, not quite able to be friendly about it. "It's one thing if you're training—

that's different, somehow, but like now…he can't handle that."

~tbc~


	74. Gather Me

Chapter Seventy-Four: Gather Me

* * *

After a rather serious conversation and slight trade of accusations, Omi had finally left Yohji to his task.

Ten minutes later, he still sat with the unopened folder on the kitchen table in front of him. He didn't know what was in it, but it felt wrong to look, to dig into stuff that Aya had decided he wasn't ready to tell them.

No, that wasn't quite true. Yohji had made a living unearthing the nasty pasts of various people. It was more that it was Aya, and he was realizing how little he knew about the boy, and, maybe that it was better that way.

But he couldn't put if off forever. Reaching out, Yohji resolutely flipped open the manila folder, exposing the article Omi had read from earlier. Pulling it closer, he began to read.

_Late Thursday night, a small explosion set fire to a house in the suburbs of Chiba. The police suspect a gas leak, though there is an ongoing investigation. The owner of the house, Fujimiya Ryota, was unfortunately killed in the explosion along with his wife. _

_Fujimiya-san was the well-known CEO of the Senda corporation and widely acknowledged as a committed humanitarian. Recently, however, there has been conflict within the company, and many of Senda's dealing have come to light to cast doubt on the character of Fujimiya-san. While this newspaper had no desire to speak ill of the dead, upon contacting Takatori Reiji, Vice Prime Minister of Japan and close associate of Fujimiya-san, there can be little doubt of Fujimiya's guilt._

_While Takatori-san regrets the unfortunate events that befell Fujimiya and his family_ . . .

Takatori. Gods, the freaking Vice Prime Minister, fucking impossible.

Not that Yohji believed corruption stopped in the lower ranks; he had personally dealt with a number of dark beasts who got off on putting CEO and President in front of their names. But to associate with that kind of government official, someone who was on TV on a weekly basis, the Fujimiya family was into some big stuff. There was no telling what Fujimiya senior had been dealing under the table; with Takatori backing him, he could have had practical immunity from the law…

But Aya maintained that the man had framed his father. Considering what he knew of politics, Yohji believed it could be true, but he also realized Aya had a pretty heavy stake in maintaining his father's innocence.

Setting that aside, Yohji picked up the next paper. It was a report card for Fujimiya Aya. He briefly checked the birth date and gender, glancing at classes and grades. Average, he thought, making him think it was the Fujimiya's prestige or wealth that had gotten the children admitted to the elite school.

This was challenged by the next paper, the marks of Fujimiya Ran. Difficult classes and he was still very near the top of his class. Maybe they had assumed his sister would do just as well?

It was hard to picture Aya in a classroom, being normal, laughing with his friends or stressing over homework.

Yohji put the page aside, promising himself he could come back to it later and examine it in detail. Right now he needed the gist of the folder.

He really hated folders.

Okay, what was this? It looked like a scanned image of some tabloid.

A closer look revealed it to contain an article about Fujimiya's company, or at least a woman his company had reportedly experimented on.

_Senda Killed My Baby!_

_Inoue Saki, formerly a loyal employee of the Senda corporation, claims that the company is doing horrific experiments on unborn children, and that these experiments killed her baby!_

"_I never said they could test on me!" she tells reporters. "During my company physical, the doctor injected me with a shot. I'm sure that's what did it."_

_Senda's PR manager denies Inoue's claims, but there is sufficient evidence against the company. Inoue has seen pictures of her stillborn child, and it clearly showed signs of deformity. _

"_Its hair was an odd color, and it was an albino. Its legs too," she remembers, "there was something really wrong. All of the children in my family are healthy, and in my husband's family too. They did this!"_

Yohji flipped over the page. After two similar, sensationalized reports, he had to get a beer.

It didn't take a genius to figure out what Omi was thinking, but all of these children had been stillborn. Admittedly, the links were pretty strong. Pale skin and odd coloring came up in all three reports, touted as a sign of genetic alteration. But why? Why not use willing test subject? It was risky, but with enough money… And whose tests were they?

Would Fujimiya Ryota okay tests on his own wife? The stakes would have to be pretty high, but it wasn't impossible. Was Aya a result of those tests? What was the purpose? And why the hell was this important? So what if some scientist had fucked with the boy's appearance? What was Omi thinking?

Yohji ought to see it. It frustrated him that the scheme didn't jump out at him; it happened often enough. He was good at this shit, if he had a little time for it to sink in.

And time they did not have.

About to turn another page, he was interrupted by a soft voice.

"Yohji?"

Aya stood in the doorway, looking nervous and paler than normal. Yohji nodded for him to continue, silently hoping he staid to that side of the kitchen and didn't get near enough to see what exactly the blonde was pawing through.

"Can I . . . Can I sit in here with you?"

Requests from Aya were very rare, and Yohji was not about to deny him anything he got up the nerve to ask for. Hell, the boy could ask for Takatori's head on a platter and the blonde would be off to get it if he thought would make the boy happy. Yohji wasn't sure that was a healthy reaction, but he wasn't going to analyze it either. Not right then, and definitely not with the odds and ends of Aya's past spread across the kitchen table.

He had intended to talk to Aya eventually, and while he would have preferred at least one night to get his thoughts together, he wasn't about to send the kid away.

"Yeah, come on in."

He wanted to hide the papers, but doing so would be more suspicious, and he'd only have to get them out again.

In the end, it wasn't an issue. Coming slowly into the room, Aya silently knelt close beside Yohji's chair. Closing his eyes, he let his head tip forward so that his forehead rested gently against Yohji's thigh.

"Okay?" Yohji asked.

"Yes, Yohji."

"Alright."

He didn't like Aya on the floor, but if it made the boy feel better, Yohji wasn't going to fight it. Careful not to move his legs and disturb his guest, Yohji went back to the sheets. Thankfully the next few were less exciting: an autopsy report of one of the deceased babies, a brief police report on the explosion, a family tree of Takatori Reiji and some notes on his sons, census records on the Fujimiya family, proof of cremation and location of ashes, an article on a humanitarian award received by Aya's father, a family picture.

He stared for a long time at printed photo, at the happy family. The father was tall, with a strong face but kind eyes. He held a little girl in his arms, her kimono slightly askew and her hands around his neck. Next to him was the mother, Amiko, Yohji recalled, the picture of the traditional woman with her soft smile and pitch black hair pulled tightly back. She was pretty, probably a knockout in her youth, but nothing like Aya. None of them were.

Standing in the front of his mother was the little boy. He wore the same kind of formal clothes, probably dressed for some dinner or celebration, not every day stuff. He didn't do anything to draw attention to himself as some boys would, standing perfectly still, hands clasp behind his back, looking all of five but with the sternness of a man.

By no fault of his own, he stood out like a sore thumb, his long hair and odd eyes bright, his skin pale, nothing like the people behind him whose appearance shouted nice, traditional family.

Looking down, Yohji ran his hand through Aya's hair, letting the scarlet strands slide over his own tanned fingers.

~tbc~


	75. Gift Me

Notes: Well, the author is fed up with society and is escaping into the woods to play Thoreau for a few days, so here's an update to tide you all over. And, even better news, Manfred is back! (Good timing, ne, Junshin?). Thank you all for taking time to review!

* * *

Chapter Seventy-Five: Gift Me

* * *

No one had said a word, but all of them knew what to do. Yohji locked the front doors and brought down the shutters, Omi secured the side entrance and closed down the till, and Ken tidied up quickly. They met at the work table in the back, and Yohji wondered precisely how they had developed an instinct for meetings.

He produced the folder; Omi took it and handed it over to Ken, the only one not yet privy to its information. Immediately the brunette took a seat, and they all followed. Omi didn't wait for Ken, jumping into the middle of it.

"What do you think?" he questioned, looking Yohji straight in the eyes. Or, he would have been if the blonde hadn't had the protection of his shades.

"Big players," he answered. It was an understatement. Takatori Reiji was more than a big fish, he was a mother fucking shark. "Question is, how much affects us now?"

Omi nodded, "Remember Manx."

Yeah, Yohji had thought of that the night before, remembering how the woman had reacted to hearing Aya's name, the way she had snapped that weird photograph. She knew who he was.

"So Kritiker's involved?"

"I think so, but I didn't find anything."

"They'll let him in then?"

Omi nodded. Well, that was one relief, but if Kritiker wanted to keep Aya close…it wasn't exactly encouraging.

"Who ran the tests?" Omi asked. It was obvious he had a theory and was testing it against Yohji's own. The older man didn't mind.

"Takatori, or rather, his son. Masafumi. Two science degrees, and over a dozen lawsuits—and those are the ones his dad couldn't cover."

Again, Omi nodded.

"What was the point?" Ken asked suddenly, head still bent over the papers.

No one answered.

"Okay," the soccer player accepted the unknown, "So what's it got to do with Aya?"

"Obviously he's a test subject. It's too much of a coincidence, and Takatori's son was working for the company even before the merger officially happened. He's almost forty, so it's completely possible he administered the tests on Aya mother, or had someone else do it," Omi explained. "I don't know what he was doing, but almost all of the altered children died. Most were disfigured; all of them looked strange. There have to be some internal or mental alterations."

"The autopsy," Yohji put in, snagging that document from the folder. "It said something about the brain."

"Yes," Omi took it. "They noted something odd, but never went into detail. I wonder…Aya-kun's progress, his ability to pick things up, could it be some kind of…enhancement, a genetic alteration, some kind of 'super-human' plan or something?"

"Huh," Yohji grunted, noncommittal.

Something felt off in the theory; it just didn't jive. And if Aya was the best result, why would Takatori let him out of his sight?

"Why'd they use the boss's son in the first place?"

"Blackmail?" Omi theorized, not seeming set on the idea. It didn't feel right, either.

"Did the guy know?" Ken asked. "Aya's dad, did he know?"

"He had to," Yohji guessed.

"I don't know…if we believe Aya, he tried to stop the tests once he figured it out. He wouldn't have let it go if he knew fifteen years before hand."

"So he just accepted that he and his wife had a red-haired, purple-eyed baby?" Yohji scoffed. It didn't work out. They were missing something.

"Does Aya know?"

"No," Yohji and Omi said at the same time. Yohji dipped his head, giving the boy permission to take the lead.

"He probably would have said something. He's definitely angry at Takatori, and this would be more ammunition. He says the reason his parents were killed was because his father was going to the press; he didn't say anything about himself."

"So is he involved still or not?"

They spent a few minutes tossing around theories and getting nowhere quickly.

"So what do we do?" Ken asked.

"We watch Kritiker, and keep Aya in Weiss," Omi decided.

* * *

Trying to shove the entire discussion to the back of his mind where it could roll around undisturbed and maybe let something fall into place, Yohji headed to the greenhouse. He disarmed the system and stepped inside to find Aya leaning slightly over one of the long tables. The boy glanced up, then quickly back down. Shaking his head, Yohji walked over to check out whatever it was that Aya was working on.

It turned out to be a notebook, an old, battered thing with half the pages town out, something else he had unearthed from the greenhouse. On one page, Aya was listing the names of plants, number of the tray, and the date he had planted it. That kind of organization had no appeal to Yohji; he preferred to keep things outlined in his head and might manage a post-it note on a good day, but it was intriguing to see another side to Aya.

Finishing the last row, the boy clipped the pen to the side and set it all away, standing quietly beside Yohji and obviously waiting for him to speak.

"Want to eat before we go? I thought I might—"

He stopped, sure he had heard some sound. Being with Aya had made him quick to listen to tiny noises, suspecting them of being inadvertent responses. But besides a slight tensing of his shoulders, Aya hadn't moved.

Just as he was ready to speak again, something fell in the back corner.

Yohji moved without thinking. Putting himself between Aya and the source of the noise, Yohji grabbed at the ring of his watch, eyes trained on the far left corner of the greenhouse.

For a few breaths, nothing happened, then something moved low to the ground.

Yohji released the catch, gathering a small spool of wire in his right hand.

Then Aya was in front of him again.

"Damn it, Aya—"

"Don't hurt her!"

He let go of the wire, scared to even have it in his hand when Aya was in range, and it silently retracted as he stepped back, staring.

On his knees, Aya hunched over something on the floor, his arms wrapped around it and head lowered.

"Please," Aya whispered, carrying only because of the lingering quiet of the place. The boy took a deep breath, then, a little more sure. "It's my fault."

Sitting up into a kneel with a determined look on his face, Aya gathered the thing into his lap. It was large and…furry.

"Oh, gods, it's a freaking cat," Yohji laughed. "Shit, Aya, I thought it was a guy or something."

Aya did not look comforted. The animal, as if connected to the redhead, twisted in his arms to hiss at Yohji.

"Don't hurt her," Aya said again. "I…I let her in here…it's my fault."

Oh, shit, Aya thought Yohji was gonna kill the cat or something, or hurt him instead.

"Not a lot of confidence in me there," Yohji huffed, running a hand through his loose hair. Aya cringed when he stepped closer, but Yohji ignored it to crouch down beside him. Lifting a hand, he went to pet the cat; Aya flinched, and the cat hissed, a loud, fierce sound that made Yohji jerk back his hand.

"Not gonna hurt you," he told it. It stared back at him, an eerie, one-eyed stare that reminded him of Berserker. Trying to get away from this bizarre resemblance, he sought more pleasant aspects of the animal, only to realize the thing wasn't all that pleasant. It was a grizzly kind of thin, with long, ragged hair that hung over little more than bones despite the creature's large frame. Its head was gigantic, but sort of lopsided with one of its ears missing the end.

Aya had not picked a pretty pet.

Yohji had to laugh a little over the situation, at Aya worried over keeping a cat while Yohji worried over keeping Aya. The latter was undoubtedly more high maintenance.

"Hey," he raised the hand again, going this time for Aya's hair. The boy tensed but held still, and after a second's check, Yohji ran his fingers lightly through Aya's bangs. "Not gonna hurt you either."

"I'm sorry," Aya said, not looking at him. With one trembling hand he smoothed the fur on the cat's back.

"It's fine." As far as acts of defiance, a pet didn't seem worth this kind of drama. Hell, it was nice to see Aya taking a little initiative with something, even if it was an ugly-ass cat.

He decided not to tell Aya this.

"You've been taking care of him?"

Aya kept petting the cat, who relaxed onto his lap and began to purr softly, turning a little and giving Yohji the view of its broken tail.

"Aya, you've been taking care of him?"

"Her."

"Her," Yohji corrected, not able to stop smiling. Genetic engineering could go to hell; he was much happier worrying about making Aya happy, even if it meant keeping the ugly cat. "What's the lady's name?"

Nothing. Aya was still nervous, and obviously not going to go out a limb with conversation.

"Come on. I'm not mad, you know. And I wasn't gonna hurt it—her. Hey," he prodded Aya's arm a little and settled down more fully on the rough floor, "You know you can keep it."

Aya finally looked up at him, adorably confused, "Really?"

* * *

"Hey!" Ken yelled as he shoved open the greenhouse door. "You guys gonna want in on a pizza or—what the hell is that thing?"

"A cat," Yohji replied. Smart ass. Ken flipped him off; Yohji just grinned around his cigarette.

"That is one hell of an ugly cat."

"It's Aya's pet."

Since when did Aya have a pet? Not one to stress over the details, Ken shrugged that off and went closer to investigate the weird thing rubbing about Aya's ankles as he stood next to Yohji. It was big and thin and looked like it might be missing some parts.

"It's a girl," Yohji told him.

"You're letting him keep it?" Yohji had never been one for pets. When Omi brought home a puppy, he had thrown a regular fit, even resisted the big-eye thing. Once it peed on the rug, it was gone.

"It's a girl," the blonde repeated. He bent over to pet it, but the cat had other ideas. Pausing mid-rub of Aya's leg, it turned and hissed at him, making Ken laugh. Yohji glared, but he didn't look too upset. "Wouldn't you help a lady in distress?"

"Whatever. But seriously, that's the ugliest cat I've ever seen." He looked up at Aya who, for once, was looking in his direction, a wary expression on his face, "Don't cha want something cute? We could get a kitten maybe, or one of those little—"

"I want Manfred."

Ken stopped and blinked. He had never heard the boy so sure of anything.

* * *

Yohji hefted the large bag of cat food off his shoulder with a grunt that was more for show than anything else. Aya was hovering close beside him, hands outstretched like he might help if the blonde really needed it, and Yohji was not about to explain to him that a twenty-pound bag was no sweat.

As he straightened, he watched Aya watch the bag in his other hand, a collection of cat necessities designed to make the greenhouse into a nice home for their stray: bowl, blanket, and, most importantly, a brush that Yohji hoped would make the thing look a little better.

Wondering if Aya would take the initiative, Yohji held out the bag. The redhead hesitated, eyes flicking to the bag, to Yohji's face, and back again.

"Here, take it," Yohji directed, holding it a little further from himself.

Aya looked again, like it might be some kind of trick. Yohji sighed; one step forward and two back. Ever since the discovery of the cat, Aya had been quiet, very quiet, like he expected Yohji to seek retribution at any moment. He'd also been shying away from any contact and visibly not-cringing when the taller man reached for him, or anything near him, or vaguely looked like he might reach for something. He was, in short, driving Yohji crazy.

Sitting the bag on the greenhouse floor, he took a step back, lifting an eyebrow in inquiry.

Aya instantly bristled at the blunt acknowledgement of his uncertainty, glaring at Yohji. The blonde glared back over the edge of his sunglasses and gestured at the bag with his hand. With a small huff, Aya snatched up the bag, standing with it in his hand as they continued to stare at each other.

Suddenly, Yohji wondered if that was the way Aya had been forced to feed the cat, offering it bits of food then backing away. Unable to stop it, he found himself imagining Aya with a pair of scraggly, black cat ears, glaring with his purple eyes while a long tail swished angrily behind him.

"Gods, Aya," he laughed, taking the boy unawares as he stared in confusion at the sudden change of mood, "Come here. Come on, bring that bowl so we can get Manfred some water."

~tbc~

Notes from Evil Hentai Slug: *watches the author try to fit a tent into her backpack* Leave a review…please. I've got to have some way to get her to come back home and play with the pretty boys.


	76. Conscript Me

Chapter Seventy-Six: Conscript Me

* * *

The alarm clock was perfectly silent, its red numbers barely interrupting the gentle wash of moonlight, but Yohji still resented it. As he watched the digital numbers slowly add up, he heard the ticking in his head. It was the feeling of that inevitable passage that kept him awake, laying in bed, watching the countdown.

Forcibly shifting his attention away, he looked to his left. When he first recognized the signs of his own restlessness, he had gently moved Aya off him so he didn't wake the boy up with his tossing. Tired from his kendo lesson, Aya had instantly curled up on the other side of the large bed, facing away from him, and now Yohji watched the slow rise and fall of his back beneath the blankets.

He couldn't get over how much the redhead had changed his life. In less than two months, Yohji had gone from going out every night and sleeping all day to being in bed by midnight and up by nine a.m. Not to mention that he hadn't had one successful date, and, worse or better (he wasn't sure), he didn't particularly give a shit. If it wasn't miraculous, it was pretty damn close.

Of course, he'd changed Aya life too. Irrevocably and hopefully it was for the better. No matter how much time had passed, Yohji couldn't get the image out of his head, Aya chained up, beaten, begging him to stop and listen. What if he hadn't?

Yohji wished he wasn't a man who dwelt on the past, but he was. Alcohol, girls, and sex aside, he spent a hell of a lot of time reliving what might have been or what he might of done, recounting a thousand little choices that might have made a difference. He hated it, but he could no more stop it than he could stop breathing.

He had freed Aya, mostly, from a portion of the past. He hoped it was right, but…

They hadn't heard a word from Manx, but Yohji had no delusions that Kritiker had forgotten about Aya or been benevolent enough to give them a little more time. If Omi was right, Kritiker was going to take Aya under its wing, but there was still the possibility that they wouldn't, that they would label the boy as some kind of risk or liability.

Then Yohji would have to go. It wasn't a pretty picture, running from the organization, but there was no way in hell he could let them hurt Aya. He wasn't going to bare the guilt of that one.

But he didn't really think it would be an issue. If Kritiker wanted Aya dead they wouldn't have spent six weeks dicking around. That was the good news. The bad news, and a more genuine concern for the blonde, was the fact that they might want Aya too much. Out of Kritiker was bad, in Kritiker was bad, but being used by Kritiker was a fucking nightmare.

Yohji hated manipulation. He was an expert at it, but he fucking hated it when someone tried that shit on him, or on people he cared about. That was where he and Omi clashed, the kid being well versed in the art and not hesitant to twist someone around his little finger. Now, though, Aya faced manipulation at a higher level.

If his father was involved with Takatori, and if Kritiker had aims on the politician, Aya might be used as bait or blackmail or ten other things. If he turned out to be the result of some fucked up genetic alteration, then Kritiker might want to use whatever abilities he might have received, or test the hell out of him to see if any of those were real.

Yohji ran a weary hand over his face. He had to stop thinking about this or he was never going to sleep. Turning on his side, he reached under the bed to fish for a clear bottle he knew was there. In less than a minute, he was sitting up in bed with the vodka bottle in one hand and the top in the other.

He stopped, just a second, and evaluated the chances of himself doing something stupid.

Then he took a drink, closing his eyes over the familiar burn that rushed down his throat. It was soothing, and he took another, trying to shut out his thoughts. All was well for a few minutes, his mind focused purely on the familiar sensation of the alcohol. He reached to the nightstand for his cigarettes, managing to knock off the ashtray. It clattered noisily to the floor. Rolling his eyes, Yohji managed one more quick drink before Aya shifted, making a little noise that might have been a whimper, and started to rouse.

"Shh," Yohji tried, touching his shoulder with the back of the hand holding the bottle's lid. Aya pulled away, stiffening. Seconds later, he was awake, sitting up to rub at his eyes and look at Yohji. He looked at the dark window, back to Yohji, a little frown on his beautiful face.

"It's early," Yohji explained. He wanted to hide the vodka before Aya noticed it and freaked out, but he wasn't sure Aya was really all that awake and had hopes that the boy would lay back down and doze off again. "Back to sleep, Aya."

"Hn," the boy replied, an odd, noncommittal sound. But he rubbed his eyes again, trying to anchor himself more in the waking world. He looked young when he did that, sitting up with the comforter piled in his lap, revealing thin limbs under the dark blue of his pajamas. He reached to tug at the ring of the dark collar, yawned, and readjusted it to lay better against his neck.

Yohji risked it and took another drink, bringing sleepy purple eyes back to him.

"Here," he said, holding out the open bottle. Aya stared at it for a long minute, then shook his head. "Come on, Aya, live a little."

Yohji pressed the bottle into the boy's lap, forcing him to take it. It would be better if Aya was drinking too; he was sure of it. But the boy looked doubtful, and he made no move until the blonde reached to press up on the bottom of the bottle. With another look at Yohji, he brought it to his lips and drank.

Yanking it away quickly, Aya doubled over and began to cough. Yohji sighed and took the bottle out of his hand before he spilt it, setting it on the nightstand and turning back to rub Aya gently on the back as he tried to catch his breath.

He was rewarded with a glare, not quite as threatening when Aya's eyes were trying to water.

"Sorry," Yohji tried not to laugh and failed. It was too much; he had fallen for someone who couldn't even handle a drink.

His mind tried to snap to attention at that last thought, but he cut it off, focusing his attention on the boy beside him. With a sound that was suspiciously like a snarl, Aya turned over and snuggled back under the covers. Shaking his head, Yohji laid down and settled in close, but not touching. He wanted to wrap his arms around Aya, but he wasn't quite sure how the other would take it.

* * *

Upon reflection, Yohji guessed he had made some assumptions about the whole thing.

Six weeks were up. He had expected Manx to show up at six a.m., herd them down to the mission room, and point out the dark beast they were after. Then it would be planning, weapons, and praying to whatever gods would listen that they had done well enough with Aya to keep him alive.

He had not expected scheduling.

Yawning, Yohji let his head drop back against the couch. He had spent a long day of working in the shop, all the time looking over his shoulder, waiting for Manx. He had kept Aya close; even when the girls came in, Yohji had let the boy go only as far as the back room and, after a few minutes of forced flirting, joined him in the tedious task of arranging the shelves.

Aya hadn't seemed flustered by the hovering, more than willing, apparently, to stick close by. He had been quiet to the point of silence, broken only by the occasional acknowledgement of Yohji's requests. So the blonde had stuck close, unable to shake the idea that someone would show up and whisk Aya away, maybe to another team, maybe to some kind of training—he didn't give a damn where it was, Aya was not leaving.

After smoking his entire pack of cigarettes (Aya sitting next to him on the back steps every time he went out), Yohji was little more than nervous by the time Manx actually came. She showed, like she usually did, just as they were closing shop, sock-clad ankles making their appearance under the closing door. She had to stalk out the shop front in order to make that kind of entrance more than once.

Everything had stopped. There was no attempt to clean up or close down; Yohji pulled the shutter and everyone went downstairs.

It was weird, having a fifth person in the room, and the boys had stopped to look at each other. Before even the seating arrangement could be decided, she had launched in, dismissing everyone but Aya.

Yohji didn't go, and Manx didn't seem too surprised. Still, she insisted on calling him by his code name, effectively giving him the cold shoulder, then got down to business. Not dark-beast-in-dark-alleys kind of business, but be-here-Tuesday-at-three business. Sitting on the couch beside Aya, Yohji had instantly adopted a bored-looking pose, but he listened carefully to each arrangement made. It was clear he was not invited to any of the appointments, but he intended to be there just the same.

"That will be an evaluation of your skill with a weapon," Manx continued, her voice level with only the slightest hint of aggravation. "You do have a weapon."

"Yes," Aya said. Yohji was proud of the way he sat up straight on the couch and met Manx's eyes even as she stood above him.

"Good. Korat will handle your outfitting; I imagine Balinese has already introduced you. On Thursday you'll go to Magic Bus for a complete physical. Go through the emergency room entrance and directly to floor seven; speak to Nurse Takio at the desk, and she'll give you instructions. You will not decline any tests, understand?"

"Yes."

"You'll also speak to Dr. Mitsuda. I've scheduled you an extended appointment at three o'clock on Friday afternoon. His office is on floor seven as well. You will answer his questions."

"Yes."

"Persia will review your results, and I will be back to inform you about Kritiker's decision."

A decision that was already made, Yohji thought. He tried to remember the red tape he had had to go through, and most of the stuff checked out, but he just couldn't shake the idea that there was more to this than the organization's concern about Aya's health.

"If you are approved, it is likely that you will be assigned to Weiss. I assume Balinese had explained to you the expectations of such an assignment?" Manx asked.

Yohji rolled his eyes, what a way to put it. He sure as hell didn't have nightmares about the 'expectations of such an assignment.'

"Yes," was all Aya said.

Manx nodded. Reaching for her bag, she once again withdrew the camera.

"I need pictures for your file. Stand up, please."

Aya stood, and Manx moved away for a moment to turn on the light. Yohji wasn't sure who had turned it off, all of them used to being in the dark when down in the mission room. Yohji stood while she walked away, touching Aya's arm.

"Over by the wall," he suggested. Aya nodded, letting Yohji position him so that he stood against the white wall.

Manx stepped back, lifted the camera, and put it down again.

"What's that?" she questioned.

"What?" Yohji, standing close to her, raised an eyebrow.

"That," she said, motioning to her own neck, "there."

Oh. The collar. She hadn't seen if before; Aya had been wearing his favorite sweater.

"Nothing," Yohji dismissed. Manx turned to regard him seriously, obviously debating if she wanted to delve into the obvious lie. Oh, Yohji realized as he looked into her hard, blue eyes, she already fucking knew. "Jewelry."

"Does it come off?" she asked, looking at Aya now but still asking Yohji.

"No," Aya answered for himself, one hand rising to clutch at the front of the collar.

"Not yet," Yohji amended.

"Hm," Manx replied, making it difficult to interpret. "Stand up straight."

Aya let go of the collar, and Manx snapped his picture.

~tbc~


	77. Comfort Me

Four hundred reviews! I'm so excited! Thank you all so much. I still eagerly wait for reviews after every chapter, checking the computer every few hours and fretting over whether or not you all liked it, and you're so kind to take time to let me know. I feel like I ought to offer Joybug a prize for being number four hundred…I can't really fit in a lemon at this point in the story, but if you'd like a naked bishounen, I could probably manage it. Just let me know which one you'd like, and I'll try to work him in over the next few chapters. That way everyone can enjoy the prize.

* * *

Chapter Seventy-Seven: Comfort Me

* * *

"What happened?" Omi asked, standing in the doorway and preventing Yohji from coming all the way up the stairs. He had watched Manx leave and waited patiently for nearly twenty minutes; now he deserved to know what was going on. He would have already figured it out if the basement door wasn't so damnably soundproof.

Yohji just shook his head and elbowed Omi gently out of the doorway. Frustrated, the younger boy let Yohji and Aya pass, turning to follow them into the kitchen.

He stood impatiently by and watched as Yohji took out two cans and set them on the table. Going to the cabinet, the blonde rummaged around for a second before coming out with a strawberry Kit-Kat. (He must have bought it since Omi didn't like the strawberry ones.) Taking his find back to the table, Yohji took a seat and motioned Aya to the one to his right. He tore open the candy bar, broke it in half, and handed one portion to the redhead. Then he opened both cans, one soda and one beer, keeping the latter for himself and pushing the other in Aya's direction.

"Thank you," the boy said quietly.

On the verge of yelling at Yohji to just tell him, Omi was relieved when the slender man began to explain.

"Nothing happened. Manx scheduled a bunch of appointments to get Aya looked at."

"No sign on the dotted line?" Ken asked from the far side of the room. He leaned on the counter, grinning.

Yohji smiled a little, "Not yet."

It was a dark kind of joke, and Omi didn't really appreciate it. There was nothing funny about the contract, a verbal agreement, or threat, that bound each of them to Weiss. There was no paper involved, but it was made perfectly clear that once you were in, you belonged to Kritiker until…well, until you were no longer useful.

Omi suppressed a shudder and forcibly turned his attention to Aya. Looking intently at the table, the boy silently worked his way through the candy Yohji had given him. When it was gone, he wiped his hand over his mouth.

Yohji handed over the other half of the candy bar.

"Weapons, medical, psych," the blonde elaborated. "Gives us a couple more days."

* * *

"You may call me Bengal," he said.

Aya nodded, well instructed beforehand. Yohji had said it was probably a coincidence, since Sato was both a local agent and valued for his sword skills, but they couldn't take any chances. For all appearances, this needed to be like their first meeting.

Aya understood that, and Yohji hadn't needed to repeat it so many times. It made him feel slow and stupid when the blonde did that, and it was hard not to tell him to stop. Now, though Aya was glad the words were lodged in his head, keeping in grounded as his nervousness grew.

Manx was there, and it made Aya nervous. A chair had been brought in close to the practice floor, and she sat there primly in one of the shortest skirts Aya had ever seen, a small video camera in her hand.

"You use the katana?" Sato asked.

"Yes," Aya answered, careful not to refer to him as sensei. It was odd, standing before the man dressed in track pants and a t-shirt; he felt uncomfortable, like he had forgotten to dress, especially when Sato looked so proper in his gi.

He had to focus. Letting his surroundings slip away, he thought only of his task.

Sato bowed, and Aya did the same.

"Please draw your weapon."

* * *

Aya was out of it. Yohji glanced over to the passenger seat where the boy slept. Hands wrapped around his kendo bag, Aya's head rested against the door, his sweat-damp hair blown around his face by the wind that whipped over the open top of the Seven.

Yohji had been blown away by what he had done. There had been no play between the two swordsmen, and after a few opening moves, steel had met steel in quick repetition. It had set his teeth on edge to watch Aya fight like that, sure that the boy was going to get hurt. Sato wasn't holding back, but each time Yohji thought Aya might be in trouble, the boy had come back, face set in cold determination.

Even Manx was surprised. With a sidelong glance, Yohji had caught an oddly open expression of shock on her face, but, more disturbing, was the look of smug satisfaction it morphed into by the end of the exhibition.

Yohji hoped it was just because Aya would be a hell of a fighter. With what he had accomplished in such a short time, it was difficult to fathom what he might achieve given six months and a firmer constitution. Aya had tried his best, and anyone looking on wouldn't have known what he had gone through. He was too thin, true, but he looked ready and strong, meeting Manx's eyes with that cold, fighting stare.

She left satisfied. Two steps out the door, Aya fell into Yohji's waiting arms.

* * *

They made it all the way to the door before Aya balked.

Yohji had known it was coming. From the moment the word 'hospital' had slipped from his mouth that morning, Aya had been tense and quiet, pulling at his hair and the collar and twisting his fingers around his wrist when he thought Yohji wasn't looking. The kid did not want to go.

But he never said a word, and, since there wasn't anything he could really do about it, neither did Yohji.

It wasn't until they came within three feet of the automatic doors that Aya stopped. His eyes were wide, staring inside, and his right hand reached up, twisting hard in his hair. Yohji gave him a second to see if he would get it together and come on, but it wasn't meant to be. The boy just stood there, seemingly oblivious to the people passing them, trying not to stare. Yohji couldn't blame them; pale and breathing hard, Aya looked like someone about to have a psychotic episode.

It was not a good day for that.

"Aya," he tried, softly, and placed a hand on Aya's arm. The boy didn't react, but when Yohji tried to pull him forward, he jerked away, taking two steps backwards. Yohji took a deep breath, then, "What's the matter?"

Aya didn't respond for a long time, and then, slowly, he let go of his hair and stood up straight. His eyes never came to Yohji as he said, "I have to."

And suddenly his face was blank, emotionless and cold. Lowering his stare to the ground in front of him, he stepped back to Yohji's side and silently waited to the blonde to continue in the building. Yohji went, crossing the threshold with trepidation; the rush of cool, antiseptic air hit them but Aya continued to follow without incident. Bypassing the desk, Yohji led them to the elevator; they stepped into the car alone, Aya standing close to his side against the back wall.

"Okay?" Yohji asked.

"Yes, Yohji."

That was a no, that flat voice and rote response. Yohji had started to recognize it as Aya's response to stressful or frightening situations, and it was a major tip off (if, by chance, one had missed his being on the verge of freaking out) that he was not feeling comfortable. Unsure what to do, Yohji stood silently, hoping for the best.

* * *

He had spent all afternoon loitering awkwardly outside of doors. They wouldn't let him in, fine, but he sure as hell wasn't going all the way back to the waiting room. So, when Aya was taken down the hall, Yohji followed, and, much to the nurse's aggravation, insisted on waiting, yes, right there.

Said nurse was not his friend. In fact, she was a real bitch, Yohji decided.

Each time Aya came out, he looked worse. After an hour's worth of family history questions, he was silent, staring as he came into the white hallway. Yohji had tried to be encouraging, falling into step beside him as they went to the scale. He noted, in a peripheral sort of way, that Aya was still much too light for his height, but he was more concerned with the way the boy tried to edge away from the stern-looking nurse. The blonde tried to offer reassurances, but then he had to send Aya into another room by himself.

The bitch-nurse came and went, giving him a glare as he took up part of what one might think was her own personal hallway, reminding him twice that there was a waiting room just down the hall. He just smiled.

The doctor came, and Yohji felt his stomach drop. He was a tall man, still an inch short of Yohji, but definitely taller than Aya, well built and, worst of all, with dark hair and light eyes. Over the past two months, Yohji had not failed to notice that this combination did not bode well for Aya. It could only have been worse if the guy had been wearing glasses.

Yohji had seen him before. Hamane. Yamane, maybe.

He smiled casually as he approached, tucking a pen into the pocket of his white coat. Yohji checked his nametag: Yumane.

"Friend or family?" he questioned, as if he came upon waiting assassins on a general basis.

"Friend," Yohji returned.

"We'll be careful with him," the doctor assured as he walked in the door, closing it quietly behind him as he repeated Aya's name. It struck Yohji as odd that the man already knew about Aya; maybe he had been warned beforehand.

* * *

Aya was shaking. His hand trembled with such force when Yohji took it that the blonde stopped in the middle of the hall and stared at him.

The boy was sickly pale, and for a second, Yohji thought he might throw up. Though the older man stared at him, Aya looked insistently at the rug in front of him.

"Okay?"

A nod, but nothing else.

"Aya?" Yohji ducked a little, trying to see Aya's eyes.

Unfortunately, Yumane had stopped in front of them and had turned around to evaluate the pair with a curious look. As he had explained to Aya earlier, Yohji knew it was imperative that the tests went well as each and every stupid detail was going to be reported, from how Aya reacted to the doctors to what color socks he was wearing; Kritiker were nosy bastards.

So Yohji couldn't afford to linger too long over the boy's discomfort. Though it rubbed him the wrong way, he released Aya's hand and patted him gently on the back.

"Alright, let's get out of here. I'll buy you some lunch."

* * *

Yohji opened the passenger side door, and helped Aya inside. Once he got into the car, Aya instantly doubled over, the trembling growing worse.

Disturbed and desperate to help, Yohji knelt by the car, ignoring the gravel that bit into his knees as he reached out to touch Aya's shoulder. The boy jerked away. Damn it. He shouldn't have waited so long to help; he should have demanded to go with Aya, to hell with what Kritiker thought about it.

"Aya," he tried to touch again only to have the redhead flinch away.

"I'm sorry," Aya gasped, and Yohji suddenly realized how labored his breathing had become.

"It's okay. Calm down, okay? Here," he reached, trying to get Aya to sit up so he could get more air, but the boy resisted, tucking even tighter in against himself.

"I'm sorry, Yohji."

"Don't be sorry. Come on." Yohji kept his voice calm, careful not to sound worried and especially not angry. Honestly, he was grateful Aya had waited for them to get to the car before having a breakdown. "Sit up, please. Aya, sit up."

It took a second, but Aya did. Though he righted himself in the seat, he kept his head lowered, his long bangs over his face. His hands clenched each other in his lap. He was a mess, and Yohji didn't know how to fix it.

"What's wrong?" he questioned, hoping to get a better read on what was bothering Aya.

"Nothing, Yohji."

"Bullshit."

Aya started, and Yohji regretted the harsh tone that had slipped out even after he had warned himself not to let it.

"Did something happen?" he tried.

"I…" The pause was long, even for Aya, and Yohji almost gave up hope before he continued. "I did what you said."

"What I said?"

Aya nodded, head still down.

"What did I say?"

Another lengthy pause. Yohji itched to touch Aya, to hug him, to try to comfort him when he looked so shaken. But what could he do when even innocuous attempts made it worse?

"I…I let them…what…," he swallowed hard, "I didn't mess up. They…he…nothing's wrong. I did what…what you said. I did."

"Okay," Yohji answered as he sorted the words. "You let them do the tests? That's what bothered you?"

"Nothing bothered me!" Aya suddenly yelled. Trying to curl up again, he was stopped by Yohji arms. Carefully, slowly, Yohji drew him into a hug. It was awkward, with Yohji kneeling and Aya in the car, but Aya didn't resist. He was tense for a moment, then nearly fell against the blonde.

"It's okay, Aya. It's okay if you were scared."

"I wasn't scared," Aya shook his head against Yohji's shoulder. Yeah, right. But Yohji didn't say that. Instead he held him for a few minutes, lightly rubbing his back, wondering at the hands that clutched at his shirt. Aya was still so small, hard but small and warm against him. It seemed like he should have been crying, but he wasn't.

~tbc~


	78. Confound Me

Notes: Testing time at school, and the author being an expert in literature has been assigned the illustrious role of hall monitor! Which means lots of writing time…uh, I mean, lots of close and strict supervision of the halls.

* * *

Chapter Seventy-Eight: Confound Me

* * *

Yohji sat alone in bed, the tepid gray of early morning creeping in the window. Smoke rose from the end of his cigarette, adding to the dim haze that seemed to fill the room.

Lifting his free hand, he raked it through his tangled hair, soon giving up on smoothing it into order. He needed to get up and find a brush, but he didn't want to. To get up meant to officially start the day; it was too damn early and too damn depressing.

The night had been disturbing. Aya had suffered from his first real nightmares, or at least from the worst so far. There had been no quiet comfort as the boy woke up screaming again and again, apologizing to his master, alternating trying to escape from and cowering under Yohji's hands. He had been on the floor more than once, and Yohji had lifted him, nearly hysterical, back into the bed, doing anything in his power to make it better.

Eventually Aya got awake enough to recognize him, launching into apologies while Yohji tried to assure him it was okay when it clearly wasn't. They would lay back down together, but Yohji soon realized Aya was trying not to sleep. Exhausted from the day, he lost the battle more than once, but by three o'clock he was staying awake which kept Yohji awake, putting him in a pissy mood.

Around four-thirty, Yohji said…something stupid. Aya apologized and left; about to search for him, Yohji heard the shower start and was relieved he didn't have to stage a hunt just yet. So he was smoking.

Today was Aya's psych evaluation. On top of his disturbing past that would be questioned, he had recently freaked out over the doctor's visit, suffered all night, and thought Yohji was mad at him: it wasn't likely to be a rousing success.

Lost in thought, Yohji didn't notice Aya until the boy pushed open the door and entered the room. He wore only a white towel around his waist, looking so thin even with the weight he had gained. He visibly shied away under Yohji's gaze, and the blonde was careful to advert it, looking out the window so Aya could change without him staring. The boy would never ask for it, but he needed the consideration.

Only after Aya had chosen his clothes and dressed (a rather lengthy process with everything pondered over and put on with precision) did Yohji try to talk to him. Patting the bed, he motioned for Aya to sit near him. The redhead did, positioning himself near the edge of the bed and ducking his head. Yohji caught only a glimpse of shadowed eyes.

"Think you can sleep a little now?" he questioned quietly. It was too early for loud noises, even without a hangover.

No, Aya shook his head. Yohji didn't press the issue; he knew enough about nightmares to understand. He couldn't even be properly angry for his own lack of sleep, sure he would repay the favor if they shared a room long enough.

"Tell me what you dreamed about?" he asked.

No, Aya shook his head again. Yohji lit another cigarette, letting the silence hang for a minute.

"About him? Your old master?"

Yes, Aya nodded.

"About what he did to you?"

Aya hesitated, his right hand twitched but was still. Finally, he nodded.

"What did he do, Aya? What did he do to you?"

No, he shook his head. And again.

"Mitsuda's gonna ask you that. He's not gonna stop asking just because you say no," he tried to explain.

Aya nodded, but Yohji was watching his hands. He had taken the bandages off the day before, hoping to make the healing cuts less obvious, but now short nails were raking over that same damn spot. Quickly stubbing out his smoke, Yohji leaned forward and caught Aya's hand.

Aya looked up, their eyes meeting, both tired and a little desperate.

"You can't do that today. Understand?"

It took a minute, but Aya nodded, "I…I'll do what you say."

* * *

Yohji knew Aya was nervous, but he didn't quite realize how upset the boy was until he had to pull off on the side of the road for Aya to throw up the little breakfast he had managed to eat. Afterwards they sat awkwardly together as Yohji restarted the Seven and pulled back onto the road.

Yohji wasn't sure what to say. The familiar reassurance that everything was okay waited on his lips, but it wasn't appropriate, because things were probably not okay, not to Aya anyway. After a bad day and worse night, he had dark circles under his eyes which looked so tired. He was unsure, and had grown increasingly nervous as the day wore on. Now, embarrassed after being sick, he refused to even look in Yohji's direction, staring out the window.

* * *

The room was cold, and Aya ran his hands up and down his arms, marveling at the softness of his orange sweater. He had worn it the day before, but Yohji had been kind enough to wash it so he could have it again. The familiarity made him feel a little safer as he sat alone in Mitsuda's office.

He supposed it was an office; Yohji said so. It looked more like a living room, terribly modern yet unable to achieve minimalism. The stark, glass-topped desk was cluttered with papers and pens, the black couch and chair decorated with green throw pillows, and the tall, angular shelves filled with knickknacks that undoubtedly gathered dust.

It didn't make any sense to Aya, but then, none of it did. What did they want?

Mitsuda was a mystery, yet to appear and generally unimportant in Aya's opinion. Kritiker, though, wanted to evaluate him, and he needed to prove himself worthy because…because Yohji wanted him to. No, that wasn't right. It was to find Aya-chan…but Yohji…

It confused him more than he liked to admit.

Forcing his attention away, Aya searched for something else to think about. There were no windows, and he didn't dare move from where the secretary had seated him. He would do what Yohji said. He wouldn't scratch his wrist or pull his hair, if he could avoid it. He would sit there, listen to Mitsuda, and answer the questions. Aya dreaded that. He didn't want to talk, because he always said something wrong. Only Yohji listened to—

No. He couldn't think about how Yohji reacted. This was different. This Mitsuda wouldn't understand, wouldn't make so many allowances. Aya had to be on his guard. He had to answer, but no one said anything about telling the truth. He would find the answer Mitsuda wanted.

Aya was good at that.

* * *

Mitsuda Yayoda was a power-hungry ass.

Yohji had known him all of two minutes, but he would gladly pronounce this a fact. What was Kritiker thinking, hiring a moron like that to evaluate mental health? He hadn't previously suspected the organization of nepotism, but there had to be favors exchanged somewhere. Mitsuda couldn't have gotten anywhere by his own merits.

The words he had traded had not been pleasant, but it was more than that. The very look of him turned Yohji off. He looked scrawny, though he really wasn't. Tall and rather thin, Mitsuda wore what he undoubtedly thought was professional attire; his brown pants and loose, pale yellow dress shirt doing nothing to make him look intelligent, just boring and ill-coordinated, like he was trying too hard. His shined shoes seconded this opinion.

And there was something about his face, Yohji decided. According to his name and accent, Mitsuda was Japanese, but there was a foreign influence somewhere. He was rather pale (maybe just from staying out of the sun) with fine, straight hair that was lighter than Yohji's own. It was long and pulled back into a ponytail at his neck, making his ears look too large and his nose, already birdlike with its length, appear even longer.

Yohji wasn't sure if he really needed his silver glasses, or if he just thought they made him look smarter. They didn't.

And he was in charge of Aya's evaluation; Yohji would have liked to evaluate him in a dark alley.

Pausing in his pacing of the hallway, Yohji took a breath and told himself to calm down. Mitsuda hadn't done anything more than take a snooty tone with him, and over the last three days he really ought to have gotten used to that. Manx, Yumane, bitch-nurse…everyone was up his ass about Aya.

Wishing for a cigarette, Yohji made a few decisions. He would go outside and smoke. He wouldn't kill Mitsuda, yet. The two went hand in hand, and he smiled a little as he realized he could always get the psychiatrist later.

* * *

Pathetic.

This was Mitsuda Yayoda's first thought when he walked into his office. Having worked for Kritiker for nearly a year, he had done his share of team evaluations. This, however, was his first for the assassination team, Weiss. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't the frail-looking boy half huddled in a gaudy orange sweater. The kid couldn't be much over eighteen, and he certainly didn't look like any kind of prodigy. He looked strange.

Closing the door, Yayoda walked over and took a seat behind his sleek desk. He laid down the folder he was carrying and took a minute to look through the background notes he had been provided. This kid was a trauma case; a lot of them were, sad people with terrible pasts—old news. Yayoda didn't care about helping them. They didn't deserve it; if they had wanted to work through their pain, they wouldn't have chosen to get revenge through Kritiker.

This one, though, had it worse than usual, it seemed. There were very few specifics in his file, but it seemed as he had spent some time as a slave of some sort. Besides that, his family was of some import to the current moving of the organization. Kritiker wanted information. That was clear. It didn't matter how "fit" this Fujimiya was; they wanted him to talk.

Yayoda smiled, a tight, cruel turn to his lips.

* * *

"Your name is Fujimiya?" Mitsuda questioned, leaning back a little in his chair and lacing his hands together as his gray eyes came to meet Aya's.

Aya struggled to keep his head up; he didn't have to worry about this man. He didn't have a reason to hurt him, and Yohji was just outside. It would be fine. All he had to do was answer the questions.

"Yes."

"Hm," the blonde replied vaguely as his long fingers flipped through a thin folder of papers. "Do you consider yourself fit to join Weiss?"

"Yes," Aya answered. He could do this, all he had to do was pay attention.

"You do realize Weiss is one of the best teams with one of the highest success rates in the organization?"

No, he hadn't.

"Yes."

"And you don't think you're presence will hurt that?"

Would it? Would he put Yohji in danger by being there? Wait—what did Mitsuda want to hear? He had to focus.

"No."

"My, you certainly don't lack confidence, do you?"

The next few minutes were spent with Aya tersely answering yes or no questions, then, in a sudden turn of the conversation, Mitsuda ask him where he was born.

"Tokyo," he answered, slightly hesitant. What did that have to do with anything?

"Hm. Did you have a good family life?"

Careful, Aya warned himself. Find the right answer. Think normal.

"Yes."

"Really? Father supported you? Mother cared for you?"

"Yes," he replied, hoping the lie didn't show. Aya hadn't thought about it in a long time, and he didn't want to think of it now. He had to focus on Aya-chan, not what happened when they were little.

"Hm," Mitsuda replied, as if he doubted the answer. "It was perfect, then?"

"Yes—no," he corrected quickly, catching on to the trap. "Nothing's perfect."

Looking satisfied, Mitsuda leaned forward.

"Why wasn't it perfect? What was wrong with your childhood?"

Aya was at a loss, wanting to drag up some little occurrence but unable to get his memory to cooperate. It was still a fuzzy thing, willful seeking often interrupted by flashbacks which made him reluctant to think about the past. He didn't know what to say.

"Was your mother a kind woman?"

An image then, that he hadn't wanted. His mother standing by the kitchen counter, delicate hands forming perfect triangles of rice. Turning, holding out the tray to him and Aya-chan, smiling.

"Yes."

"Did she love you?"

Lie. That was his first thought. The smiling image vanished, replaced by the woman who yelled and cried, who—no, lie.

"Yes."

Mitsuda pulled his chair closer to the desk, leaning further over it, closer to Aya. The boy fought the urge to back up in his chair; he caught his hand just as it went for his hair and lowered it deliberately.

"Hm…your father. Was he kind?"

His father, standing behind his large desk, keeping his eyes on Aya-chan, away from Aya, always away. No. He couldn't do that, no.

"Yes."

"Hm. Did he love you?"

So clear. His father's rough grip on his arm, half-dragging him up the steps of the shrine, demanding that he be quiet and not embarrass them further.

His father offering excuses to his guests, not looking at Aya as he explained away his awful coloring. These things happen. They'd done tests, but—

He had to stop. Aa lifted a hand, dropped it. No. No.

"He…he was a good man."

Mitsuda looked as if he'd just hit a goldmine, and Aya couldn't figure out what he'd said wrong. He felt overwhelmed, fighting back memories that rushed him all at once. He had to make it stop. He had to do what Yohji said.

* * *

Aya's face was perfectly emotionless, but Yohji could see the turmoil in his eyes. It made him want to wring Mitsuda's neck, not in the figurative sense, either.

The other blonde smiled at him, a self-satisfied expression making his bird-face look exceptionally cruel. If he had said a word, Yohji would have hit him, but, good fortune or not, he walked away, leaving the assassin to deal with Aya.

"Okay?" he questioned, knowing the answer but hoping to gage Aya's response. What were they looking at here? Some quiet time? A yelling match? A complete breakdown?

Life with Aya was complicated, and just to throw Yohji off again, Aya didn't nod. He didn't do anything, just stared at the older man with that scary, blank look that didn't touch his eyes.

"Aya?" Yohji asked, stepping closer and touching the boy lightly on the shoulder. Aya tilted his head to accommodate the closeness, but made no answer. "Are you okay?"

There was a moment of silence, then Aya took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He nodded once, then lowered his head.

"Is that a yes?"

"I…home…please."

"Yeah," he replied to the whispered request, "Sure."

~tbc~

* * *

Evil Hentai Slug: *sitting by the author as she guards the deserted middle school halls* Review, reader. Tell her to forget the children and write the lemons!

ShonenAiSorcerer: *sternly* I'm not writing lemons when I'm supposed to be watching the children. *turns to grab a pen; a lemon falls out of her pocket*

Evil Hentai Slug: Sure…whatever you say…


	79. Carry Me

Chapter Seventy-Nine: Carry Me

* * *

Hours. It'd been fucking hours, and Aya was still at it.

He hadn't thought too much about it when Aya asked if he could go practice. It was a little more than obvious (to Yohji's at least), that Aya needed some time to himself. Whether he used this to think or not-think, Yohji wasn't too sure, but he was learning to leave well enough alone so Aya could get his bearings.

However, he was not going to let _this_ go on.

Sliding open the gym door, he watched for a minute. Aya brought his sword down swiftly, turned, brought it back up and sliced horizontally; backing up half a step, he parried some invisible blow and, with a quick lunge forward, sliced downwardly again. A jab and another parry, then he started all over again.

His face had been flushed at one point, but was now pale as he worked past the edge of exhaustion. His eyes appeared more sunken than usual, the circles under them dark, accentuating the slightly gaunt nature that lingered in his face. His sweaty, messy hair hung half over his face as he moved, eartails clinging momentarily to his cheeks, lifting as he turned, and falling again.

He looked tired. It was nearly two in the morning, and with no food and little sleep, Yohji didn't know how he kept going. Something was obviously wrong, and Aya's newest method of coping was clearly not working. He needed to talk, and though Yohji hadn't forced it in the past, it was looking like a time for a serious intervention.

Setting his teeth together, Yohji went in. Aya didn't stop, and the blonde had to wait for the slower parry before he was able to step in and land and hand on top of Aya's. The boy froze, looked up, then, at Yohji's silent insistence, handed over the weapon. Leaving Aya standing in the middle of the floor, Yohji carefully sheathed the sword and leaned it against the wall. He lingered there, just a second, thinking, and turned around just in time to see it happen.

With a slight tremble, Aya placed a hand to his head. Then he collapsed, looking too much like a body released from the wire as he dropped straight down to the floor, feet tucked behind him and one hand pressed between his spread knees, the other still shielding his eyes.

Yohji should probably have been surprised, but he actually found himself grateful that Aya hadn't simply passed out. Of course, that might have saved him the impending conversation.

Taking his time, he walked back to the boy and settled on the wooden floor beside him, spending a few minutes looking at the freshly waxed floorboards and wondering if Aya would say something first.

"I'm sorry," the boy stated quietly.

No shock there, Yohji thought, but he kept his mouth shut. Aya was tired, and such a state had caused him to talk in the past.

"I…I…," Aya dropped his hand from his forehead, bracing both against the floor as he stared down at them, shoulders hunched and face completely hidden. Wary. "I think I messed up."

Yohji kept his mouth shut, but when Aya didn't go on, he relented and took another track. He reached up and, ignoring the way Aya flinched from his touch, ran his fingers through the eartail closest to him, gently separating the damp strands. Aya was perfectly still, maybe even holding his breath. Yohji thought the boy, or at least some part of him, still expected the blonde to haul off and beat the shit out of him.

Taking a deep breath, Yohji kept his voice quiet as he asked, "What're you talking about?"

"I…today…I…"

When he wasn't able to go on, Yohji took a few more minutes sorting the messy strands of red hair, amused (tired as he was) at how Aya relaxed, just a little, under the kind touch. The boy was meant for gentle things.

By the time he took his hand away again, Aya seemed to have gathered his thoughts to a degree.

"I told him…I…my father wasn't a bad man."

"Okay," Yohji acknowledged. "Who thinks he was?"

"That…that man," Aya shook his head in a novel display of disgust. "He…I should have answered more quickly. I just…it was hard. I'm sorry."

"It's alright," Yohji assured, bending down awkwardly to see Aya's eyes, holding the cramped pose until the redhead got the idea and looked up at him. "He's an ass. What'd you tell him?"

"He trick—I wasn't paying enough attention. He wanted to know if…if my father…if father loved me. He asked a lot of questions."

"Did he? Your father, did he…" Yohji didn't feel right to finish the interrogating question, but when Aya started to talk, he made no move to cut him off either.

"Father was a good man. He helped people; he didn't…he never hurt those people," Aya insisted. Then his head dropped down again, "He had his reasons for…he was very kind to Aya-chan."

"Was he kind to you?" Yohji asked, quietly, using Aya's words.

"He…I…it was my fault. I…I made things difficult," the boy said, but those words didn't sound like his; they sounded like something he as repeating. "I always…it was…I couldn't help it. I couldn't help what I—I'm sorry."

"You're fine," Yohji insisted, wondering if the apology was even meant for him. "What did you do?"

"Look at me," Aya said suddenly, exhaustion and pain shockingly present in his voice. "I…they, my family, they were normal…and I wasn't. Not ever. I…father…had concerns."

"Concerns?"

"He thought...my mother was from a very good family, but she…when they were first married, she…my father knew about it, about him, but it was only…only one time. He was always away…she wasn't a bad woman, Yohji."

"Right," he answered, trying to put it together and wondering if he had missed a piece somewhere. Was Aya talking about an affair?

"It was a long time ago…before I was born, and mother…she was so sorry," he shook his head. "She was devoted afterwards; father began to work in Tokyo. They were happy…before…then, when I…he thought she had cheated again."

Oh. So Aya's dad thought he was another man's child. That explained a few things, like that family portrait. But if—

"She didn't. They…there were a lot of tests. I…I was small, but I remember. Mother…mother cried, but…they said, the doctors, they said I was…she hadn't cheated, and I was…everything was right, even though I was so…strange. So strange.

"They fought…I…my fault. Mother…mother yelled at me, but father…

"He took me to the shrine. I think…they talked…I…he thought I was…I was a…demon…or, a demon soul or…he didn't want to talk about it….I was a punishment from the gods because of mother. He was so angry at us both…but he never…he was still…to me. He taught me…he just…

"And Aya-chan. Aya-chan made him happy."

He seemed to come back then, lifting his head again.

"Aya?" Yohji questioned.

"He wouldn't have hurt people, Yohji. I don't want that doctor to think..."

"It doesn't matter," Yohji assured, still trying to process what was disturbing, if broken, story.

"It does!" Aya whispered emphatically. "My family was honorable. I know…I know I can't be, but my father's name; I won't let them blame him."

"Okay," Yohji soothed, sensing that they weren't too far from the breaking point. While a freakout might have been cathartic, Yohji doubted it, and he was more concerned about getting a bit of food into the redhead and putting him to bed. And gods, he just wanted to comfort him a little.

"Come on," he suggested, getting to his feet, too tired to be graceful about it. "I'm starving."

Aya didn't move.

"Aya, let's go. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor tonight."

"I…I can't get up."

There was nothing to do but laugh. Yohji shook his head, realizing that the boy had in fact worn himself out completely, barely able to hold his head up. Well, that would teach him to run on empty through six hours of practice, wouldn't it.

Yohji took a minute and lit a cigarette. Stowing his pack and lighter, he clenched his teeth around the smoke and crouched down in front of Aya, his back towards the boy.

"Come on," he said again. Aya, unsurprisingly, did nothing. "Aya, arms, come on."

Hesitantly, Aya put his arms around Yohji's shoulders, the thin limbs drooping with fatigue. Yohji was careful not to move too quickly as he shifted backwards and coaxed Aya onto his back. Mindful of Aya and his cigarette, he stood.

"You know what, Princess? You're gettin' to be real high maintenance."

~tbc~

* * *

Notes: Please review to tell Yohji to keep up the good work, or at least not to drop Ayan!


	80. Clothe Me

Notes: I know everyone's getting impatient for some action, and I promise to deliver to the best of my ability if you'll just bare with me for a few more chapters!

* * *

Chapter Eighty: Clothe Me

* * *

"Welcome to the land of the living," Ken joked.

Yohji just smiled, thinking himself well entitled to his sleeping in, even if it did make him over an hour late for his shift in the shop. Ken didn't seem to begrudge him the time, and even lifted a box of doughnuts in his direction. Coming over to the counter to investigate, Yohji poked around the assortment until he came up with a plain, cake doughnut that suited him.

It was weird for Ken to buy breakfast, and especially strange that there would be any left after ten in the morning. Mouth full, Yohji gestured to the box.

"I thought Aya might want some breakfast," Ken said, looking away like he had been caught at something. "He hasn't been eating much, and you said he liked doughnuts. I, uh, I didn't really know what kind…"

"Thanks," Yohji acknowledge.

"Whatever. Is he coming down?"

Popping the last of doughnut in his mouth, Yohji chewed as he put on his apron. Once he was finished, he turned back to Ken.

"He's still sleeping, and after last night," he shook his head, "I'm not gonna wake him."

"Oh. I thought he could help with the roses," Ken sighed a bit, obviously disappointed in having to deal with the task alone. Aya, it seemed, had started to become a serious amount of help. The fact made Yohji glad, a small shimmer of positivity that he needed. It was almost as good as coffee.

"You want him to be grumpy? I'll help," Yohji offered. Going to the cooler, he stood and stared at it for a long second before asking, "Now which ones are roses again?"

Ken did not seem amused.

* * *

Korat came to the door, a wide grim spreading across his face as he greeted them.

"Balinese! And the stray! Come in, come in," he said, backing away from the door. Aya turned his eyes away, unable to look for long at the slick patch of skin where the man's eye had been. It reminded him of Farfarello, and he couldn't afford to remember that at the moment.

He needed to think.

Yohji was being friendly with him, talking and joking as Korat settled them at a rickety looking table and picked up a smoldering joint from the ashtray there. The entire place was closed off, dark and permeated with the smell of pot; a light haze hung in the air. Yohji declined the joint, but borrowed the man's lighter to ignite his cigarette. When it was offered to Aya, he just shook his head, unsure what else to do. That seemed to work, and Korat set it aside.

"What brings you to my door?" he asked Yohji, all smiles. Aya thought, was pretty sure, actually, that Korat knew what they were there for. "More weapons?"

No, Yohji shook his head, then, with the lit cigarette between his fingers, gestured to Aya, "He needs some new clothes."

A single, bright eye focused on Aya, and the man's smile widened. He felt uncomfortable, and tugged at the hem of his black sweater, knowing its lower neckline showed the collar. How he hated that.

Never mind, he told himself, ducking his head under Korat's stare.

"He's looking better," Korat said. "Getting some muscle on him. Been practicing, I bet. Gonna go out and hunt?"

Aya glanced up to see Yohji nod, a slight smile on his lips but his green eyes serious as he looked out over his sunglasses.

"Anything in particular?"

"Whatever he wants."

Ten minutes later they were tracing a path through the building, making different turns than before. Aya felt better with Yohji behind him, sure that the blonde wouldn't lead him into some kind of intricate trap or leave him with the strange Korat. Together they ducked under a lifted flap of heavy burlap that hung in a low doorway, stepping into a surprisingly bright room.

Unlike the weapons room, it was cluttered. Near the walls were racks of clothes, seeming to have no rhyme or reason; Aya saw black robes on one, a purple miniskirt on another. There was a door at the far end of the room and sever hangers rested over its edge, suspending some long, plastic-covered garments that might have matched the variety of things laying around on the various, odd tables that were packed into the center of the room. The only clear space of any consideration was where they stood.

Korat left them there and moved inside, shuffling a few items and poking around while muttering to himself.

"Night work. Probably shadow cover. Weapon concealment." He looked back at Aya. "Rather thin. Body armor?"

The last was a question, and Yohji answered.

"Light, maybe."

"Yes. Sword, right? Jacket or coat?"

"What do you think, Aya?" Yohji asked him, turning in his direction. Seeing that Aya was confused, he elaborated. "You've seen my coat. Omi and Ken both have jackets. It's handy, you know, to hide stuff in. Helps you blend in too. Which sounds better? Or, you could try on a couple."

He thought for a minute, and quickly decided a jacket wasn't going to hide his sword. Yohji should have known that.

"Coat."

"Good call," Yohji said, wearing that same forced smile. Aya couldn't see his eyes now, not with his sunglasses pushed up like that.

Korat nodded, shuffling more things, dragging out several long pieces and unwrapping them from garment bags and plastic.

"Here, maybe this one," he said, holding out a long coat of dark gray. It was close cut like Yohji's, with a high collar and zipper closure. When Aya didn't take it, Yohji stepped forward to do so.

"Try it on," he told the redhead.

Aya nodded, and slipped his arms into the coat as Yohji held it up. Korat had unearthed a flimsy, full-length mirror. He propped it against the wall and wiped it down with his sleeve. Aya stared at his reflection. The coat was nice, but it was tight, and it wouldn't zip all the way up because of his collar.

No, he shook his head, simultaneously checking to see if Yohji was upset.

"Doesn't have to be the first one we try. Ask Korat, took me three days."

"No, you were a custom job. Too damn picky, that's what you are," the older man answered. Aya thought he was teasing, but he wasn't sure. Slipping the gray coat from his shoulders, he let Yohji hand it back to the other in exchange for something solid black.

That turned out to be another long coat, one that swished around his ankles and tied with a heavy belt. There were smaller, leather ties down one side of the chest, and he reached to touch them, liking the fell of the supple material.

"Maybe," he said. Yohji looked at him for a long minute, then moved to get the coat off.

"Something else in leather?" he asked Korat as he handed it over.

The thin-haired man paused to think, then nodded and went for one of the hangers on the door. It took a few minutes of jostling, but he came back with another coat. Yohji took it and held it up, letting Aya slip his arms into his before turning him around and doing up the fastenings.

They were buckles, three small but heavy ones to secure it. Aya liked that; it was tidy, somehow. Turning back to the mirror, he touched the silver with his finger before taking a step back to get a more general idea.

The coat was a mix of black and dark purple, the color of deep shadows at dusk. The collar was more open, with lapels that folded back securely, not fussy. The hem ended just below his calves, but there was a high slit in the back that would give him room to move.

He tested that, stepping back and lifting his arms. The coat was heavy, but it was soft leather, not restricting him.

It was…

"That one?"

"Yes."

"A fine choice," Korat grinned. "Now, you'll want something under that."

* * *

"Buckles, huh?" Yohji asked with a smile as he guided the Seven down the deserted street. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aya watching him, but the boy didn't answer.

They'd pick up his things later since some of them needed alteration to account for Aya's thinner frame and, much to Yohji's amusement, a few custom changes Aya had hesitantly requested. Though he was teasing now, Aya really did seem to appreciate straps and buckles, but maybe they were just practical choices. He had wanted them on the collar of the undershirt, to draw it higher up around his neck, and then one on the upper arm of each sleeve of his coat, to pull the material tighter there. Maybe it was something to do with fighting, but Yohji really wasn't sure. What he did notice was the logic Aya had applied to the situation. That was new, and it made him wonder how much thought the boy was putting into it and what kind of strategical knowledge he actually had.

"Want to grab a bite to eat?" he asked. It was past midnight, but there were several all-night places on their way.

No, Aya shook his head. He hadn't been eating much at all during the stressful week they'd had. The night before Yohji had talked him into not quite half a sandwich before he fell asleep on the table.

"We'll go to Mira's." It was a diner Yohji liked. He got a light glare from Aya at not listening to him, but the boy wasn't comfortable enough to say anything so Yohji got his way. Hopefully he could get Aya to eat some fries at least, and if all else failed, Mira had a great strawberry shortcake.

~tbc~

Notes: Review to hustle along the plot. Here, poke it with this spork.


	81. Clear Me

Chapter Eighty-One: Clear Me

* * *

"In private," Manx emphasized, turning to cut Yohji off before he walked down the stairs. He wanted to protest, but the look in her eyes prevented it. Seeing she had won, she offered him a smile, "We'll only be a minute."

The door closed in his face as she disappeared into the basement with Aya.

That was it. Sign on the dotted line. He quelled a shiver that wanted to run down his spine and turned to go into the empty kitchen. Walking to the sink, he turned, stalked back to the table, then back to the sink again. His hands clutched nervously at the counter.

What the hell had he done?

Yohji had promised himself that he wasn't going to drink so much, but this was an exception. He couldn't sit at the table by himself and listen to the voice in his head, not when it kept blaming him for getting Aya into this. The boy was down there, signing his life over to Kritiker.

Fuck.

He opened the freezer door, shifted the frozen meals, and took a bottle from the back. It was Crown Royal and mostly full. Yohji wasn't going to drink it all since Aya might need him after this, but he sure as hell was going to have some. He couldn't stop going over the decisions he'd made.

This shit was going to drive him crazy one day.

He took a shot glass from on top of the refrigerator and sat at the table to fill it. Lifting it in some unknown solute, he took the shot without a chaser and poured another.

* * *

It was barely thirty minutes later when the basement door opened, but Yohji had made good time and was feeling the effects of the whiskey. He didn't get up, just looked evenly at Manx.

"We're finished," she said, giving no indication of how the meeting had gone. Aya was less than helpful as he stared at the floor.

"Well?" Yohji questioned.

"I'll have a mission for you tomorrow," she answered in a cold tone as she stared down his bottle. He just nodded and downed the shot he had already poured so he could refill the glass. Apparently disgusted and done with the both of them, Manx simply turned and left, leaving them to their own, fucked up commiseration.

Using his foot to push out the chair next to him, Yohji motioned to Aya, "Sit."

Aya looked up at him, his expression troubled.

Even as the boy went for the chair, Yohji corrected his own rude words, "Sit down, Aya, please."

Aya sat stiffly in the chair, staring at his lap as his hands tugged at the end of his black shirt.

"Here," Yohji said, pushing the brimming shot glass in his direction.

No, Aya shook his head. Yeah, it was probably too much to ask. Yohji pulled the glass back and took the shot himself. It didn't seem to ease Aya's nervousness, and he watched the boy tug on his collar before going for his hair.

"It's okay," Yohji soothed, "Nothing's gonna happen, Aya. I just…I'm worried, that's all. Here, I'm done."

Resolutely setting the glass aside, he took Aya's hand instead, dragging it away from the much abused eartail and setting it on the table. He gently traced the long fingers, trying to put the boy at ease.

"It's not so bad," he lied. "I mean, you'll get the hang of it. Don't worry, okay?"

"You're worried," Aya said quietly.

"Yeah," Yohji admitted. "Can't help it. I'll be there, Aya, I promise I won't anything happen to you."

There was a long moment of quiet.

"You won't leave me?" Aya whispered, purple eyes looking up at him.

"No, I won't leave you."

"And you won't…you won't hate me afterwards?"

"No, Aya. I won't ever hate you."

~tbc~

Notes: Review to comfort the boys? I don't think it's going to any easier for them…


	82. Convince Me

Notes: Thank you all for reading, and especially for your reviews! They really encourage me to keep at this.

* * *

Chapter Eighty-Two: Convince Me

* * *

They closed down shop together. It was quiet save the soft sweep of the broom across the floor and the occasional shuffling of this or that. No one felt like chatting, each lost in his own thoughts.

Dragging the rag off the edge of the table, Yohji brushed the leftover clippings into his hand and looked up.

Omi was by the register, counting the change before placing it into the yellow deposit bag. His face was clam, and Yohji wasn't sure what he was thinking. Ken was easier to read. His brows were drawn together as he went across the shop carrying a bucket of mismatched flowers, and he frowned as he sorted them to restock the cooler. Ken was worried, probably debating what was or wasn't going to happen once Manx arrived.

Yohji wondered if Aya was thinking the same thing. There was no trace of emotion on the boy's face, and he seemed to be concentrating solely on sweeping the floor, cornering the dirt and bringing it into pristine submission. The blonde was struck by the way he looked, the way he fit the scene. With his green apron tied carefully over his dark jeans and white sweater, a broom in his hand and a tiny leaf stuck in his hair, he looked like he belonged there.

He must have felt Yohji's stare, because purple eyes came up to stare at him. His expression didn't change, but Yohji thought that was just habit; Aya's eyes said he was curious about Yohji's scrutiny.

Ditching the clipping into a nearby trashcan, the blonde walked over to pluck the little leaf from the other's hair.

"Souvenir?" he questioned lightly, the word loud in the quiet shop.

Slowly, Aya reached for it, their fingers brushing as he took it from Yohji's hand.

Then the door opened.

* * *

Yohji reached to untie Aya's apron, helping the boy get it over his head before hanging it up beside his own. Omi and Ken had gone ahead, letting Manx lead the way as they headed down to the mission room.

He turned back to look at the redhead. Aya appeared a bit shaky, a little too pale. He looked like he didn't want to do this.

"Aya," Yohji started as he stepped close, not sure what he wanted to say. He brushed back the ragged bangs and looked the other in the eye.

"I don't know what to do," Aya whispered.

"You'll be fine Just stick with me," Yohji answered, trying to put as much confidence as possible into his voice. Aya didn't seem terribly comforted, but he nodded and fell into step behind the older man as they descended the stairs, Yohji wanted to grab his hand, but it probably wouldn't look goof if Weiss's newest assassin needed literally hand-holding , so he contented himself with a last, encouraging look as they reached the bottom.

The mission room was still dimly lit, and it was obvious Manx had some housekeeping to do before launching in. She stood impatiently, red suit matching the painted fingernail that tapped on side of the television, keeping time for their delay. For all her restrained aggravation, Yohji was relieved to have a few minutes t settle Aya before delving into the dark beasts and gory slideshows.

Anticipating the rearrangement of their usual seating, Omi was sitting in the low armchair and Ken had dragged over the gray computer chair. The brunette had borrowed a page from Yohji's book and was sitting backwards in his seat, arms crossed and chin resting on them. That left the couch. Sure, it was comfortable, but Yohji wasn't exactly keen on someone sitting too close to him when he tried not to react to these grotesque home movies, but all of this was of passing notice. He was more concerned about Aya for the time being.

So he plopped down on the end of the couch closest to Manx. Aya hesitated, but at Yohji's small motion, took a seat in the center. The boy reached to adjust his collar, making it lay better around his neck and drawing the blonde's attention. The silver ring was badly mismatched against the scoopneck of the white, cashmere sweater, and the incongruity ate at Yohji. Forget it, he told himself, there were other, bigger problems to worry about.

"Manx," he grinned, forcing his attention away from Aya. "All done with our lover's spat? Let's kiss and—"

"Kudou," she replied coolly. Yohji backed off, but it was nice to be on a real-name basis. Manx calling him Balinese was like his mother middle-naming him. Lucky thing the redhead didn't know that trick.

"Here," she said, handing a manila folder to Aya. "These are your details. Memorize them and then burn it."

Just like in the movies, Yohji thought. He kept his mouth shut, though, trying his best not to look over Aya's shoulder as he read. Besides, he could get the boy to show it to him later.

"Your code name will be Abyssinian," Manx informed him in a perfunctory way, sort of like Aya was wasting her time. Yohji's mind finally caught on to the attitude. Used to pissing her off and having a full repertoire of ways to do so, he couldn't help but wonder what Aya had done to raise her hackles so early on. Usually a person had to be irresponsible, drunk, or perverted for that to happen, these qualities having the greatest effect when used in combination.

"Ab-ab-what?" Ken questioned, head lifted to sort it out.

"Abyssinian," she repeated, slowly, like she had suddenly realized Ken was indeed very dull. The soccer player nodded but didn't try it again. They would all have to work on it later.

"How about the other codes?" Omi wondered. He tended to use these more than the others, especially when digging into Kritiker's databases; the organization didn't exactly use first names.

"It's all there," Manx answered, gesturing to the folder with one manicured nail. She held a DVD in her other hand, obviously anxious to get started. "Flower code's rose, number's 099, and so forth. Fujimiya, until you choose to set up an account with Kritiker, you will be paid in cash; the amount depends on the mission as we discussed. Do you understand?"

Still looking at the folder, Aya just nodded.

"Good. Please put that away and pay attention," she said tersely. Before Aya could react to the slight reprimand, Yohji took the folder and set it on the coffee table. Nodding, Manx put in the DVD and turned off the lights

The room fell into familiar darkness, lit only by the television's blue screen and quiet save the dull clicks of the DVD paler. Rarely distracted from the screen, this time Yohji was trying to divide his attention and caught Manx as she moved out of the way. Silent even in her heels, she stepped to the side, just out of the light, arms crossed and eyes focused on Aya. Yohji didn't have much time to think about it as the screen went dark, and then it started again.

Disgust and revulsion hit him hard in the pit of his stomach, making him want to physically pull away. He had the same reaction every fucking time they did it, every time Kritiker tried to psych them up by showing them the mutilated bodies of women. No matter how they died, for the first terrifying seconds, they were always her.

Pushing his shades up closer to his eyes, Yohji swallowed hard and continued to watch. He wouldn't let the others see him look away.

The scenes came and went in silence.

A teenager's thin body hanging naked from shackles on a wall, head tipped forward and long, dark hair caked with blood as it hung over her shoulders. Her arms and legs were nearly blue, a sick combination of bruises and death as her entrails drooped towards the floor from a long slit across her abdomen.

A blonde, face down on the filthy ground, organs spilled out beside her in a congealing puddle, her thin limbs twisted at unnatural angles. There were whip marks on her bare back. She couldn't have been eighteen.

Another, stretched out on a rusted table, sprawled in some parody of sex, obviously on display even in death. Her split, bloody mouth was open, and her dead eyes stared upwards; her stomach was slit open, her insides drawn outwards, just below the hem of her Hello Kitty t-shirt.

Persia's digitized voice cut across the horrified silence.

"Girls are being abducted from local high schools. They are detained at an unknown location for period of time varying from two weeks to a month with no obvious pattern. Their corpses are left at abandoned facilities around the city, tending towards Shinjuku.

"All the victims show signs of severe physical brutality and repeated sexual abuse, and it is clear they remained alive for the duration of their captivity."

The screen finally changed, pulling up two pictures. The smaller one on the right was a face-on shot of a man with wide shoulders and a square face half-hidden behind long bangs of jet black hair. He wore a gray suit and crooked tie, a look that screamed disorganized middle management, not psychopath. Then again, it was usually all in the eyes, and Yohji couldn't see his.

"Tezushi Masumoto," Persia informed, "former Vice President of Sadako Shipping."

Again the screen changed, this time showing a grainy picture of a group of suited men. One of them was probably Tezushi (here Yohji paused to sarcastically congratulate himself on that bit of deduction) but it was difficult to make out the faces.

"It is likely these men assist him with the kidnappings, but Tezushi's purpose is largely unknown to them. They are peripheral only.

"Hunters of Weiss, deny these black beasts their tomorrows!"

Somewhere along the way, Yohji had forgotten to watch Aya. When this last dramatic line released him from habitual rapt attention, he turned anxiously towards the redhead. Aya's expression was flat as he looked at the blank television, and Yohji's couldn't see his eyes in the dark. Manx flipped the light switch, but by the time Yohji's eyes flicked to her and back, Aya was staring at his lap.

"Aya?" the blonde questioned, rubbing his hand lightly down the other's back and feeling him shiver slightly. The boy said something, but it was so quiet that Yohji couldn't understand.

"What?" he asked, keeping his hand on Aya's back as he leaned forward to listen.

"He…hurt them…like that? He killed them? Really?"

"Yeah," the blonde answered quietly. Before he could continue, Manx interrupted.

"That's your target," she said, clearly addressing Aya. There were more folders in her hands now, and she held the first one out to the redhead. It took a second, but Yohji was relieved that he moved to take it. Shifting away from him, the blonde reached for his own dossier.

"Tezushi Masumoto," Manx began, "age thirty-seven. He has others kidnap the girls, paying outrageous sums for them. He makes the transaction at multiple neutral points, but the majority of the captivity takes place at a nightclub downtown."

There were more details in the folders: time schedules, maps, and pictures. It was a hell of a lot more than they usually got.

"He engages in torture and ultimately murder. The police have been restrained in their investigation because Harata Genjo, CEO of Sadako, doesn't want to shed any negative light on his company. While the majority of Tezushi's victims are from middleclass families, they also include Harata Aki and her younger sister Akane. Harata is still blocking the police; Kritiker is looking into it. You will eliminate the current problem. I trust you're all in?"

Yohji nodded, as did Omi.

"I'm in," Ken confirmed.

All of them were staring at Aya, who looked resolutely at his own knees.

"Fujimiya?" Manx questioned.

"I…yes," he answered.

"Good. One more thing," she gave them all a rather grim look, "Abyssinian will make the kill."

~tbc~


	83. Consult Me

Notes: I used Aya's old name in a flashback here, but I think it makes sense that way. I hope so anyway! Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and especially to those who are reviewing! A special thanks to blackorcid, Joybug, Darita, Sky Rat, and AllyraMortlock for your multiple reviews; it's nice to have feedback on each chapter (and it prevents me from wallowing in self-doubt and whining to my cats about how nobody likes my story—they are eternally grateful for the reprieve), and it motivates me to get the next one out quickly, so you guys are doing the hard work for everyone else! And we have a new reader, jakondas, who left a very kind review; thank you!

* * *

Chapter Eighty-Three: Consult Me

* * *

It was an easy mission. In and Out. Location already confirmed and a clear image of the target.

Despite three hours on the database, Omi didn't foresee any complications.

But he still didn't have a very good feeling about it.

Powering down the computer, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.

Even if everything went just right, it was going to be a miserable night, at least for Aya. No mission was good, and the first one wasn't always the worst, but they were hard, scarring.

Omi, Ken, and Yohji had all participated in each other's initiations by simple necessity. Later, it became clear that Kritiker had designed these to be as palatable as possible, or at least to incite them into killing. Yohji had been slated to kill a serial killer who targeted young women; there had been pictures of the victims and too much discussion of their names and backgrounds. For Ken it had been a drug lord, a man who distributed steroids laced with fatal doses of something more serious. Even for Omi, with all his extensive preparation, they had found a kidnapper who specialized in orphans; even though he didn't know too much about his own past, he remembered it striking a strong cord within him. He had wanted to kill the man, right up until the moment he did it.

Taking a long breath, Omi turned his thoughts back to Aya. It wasn't too hard to figure out how this mission figured in to the redhead's past. The boy had obviously been held captive; he had definitely been tortured, probably in worse ways than even these victims. And the rape. Om didn't like to think about it, but Yohji had hinted more than once that there had been a sexual component to Aya's servitude.

It made Omi angry to think of the boy being used that way. He wanted to be relieved that Aya could become empowered enough to take up a weapon, but he knew from personal experience that killing wasn't empowering. Maybe for a brief second, but then…then there was just the guilt.

He wondered if Aya could handle the stress of the mission. Omi hadn't gotten close enough to get a good read on the boy, and Yohji said he could handle it, but the kid wasn't exactly stable. It was strange, Omi thought, that Manx had let the issue go so quickly. Ken said they put him through nearly four months of psych counseling before his first mission, and Omi had seen more than one shrink himself. Yohji never talked about it.

Manx had said something about weekly sessions for Aya, but they were going on with the mission beforehand.

It didn't seem quite right.

* * *

There was no sense putting it off. They met briefly after Omi got home from school, looking over the club blueprints and talking about how they would go in.

Omi watched Aya carefully. The boy was quiet, but very attentive. He studied the layout for several long minutes, and repeated the plan when Yohji questioned him. No one asked him if he could do it.

When the blonde told him he would take down the target, he said only, "Yes, Yohji."

Afterwards, they had gone their separate ways, but, even after a full afternoon of errands, Omi couldn't fall asleep. He found himself back at the kitchen table, lingering over a pot of coffee, thinking.

* * *

"Hey," Yohji greeted quietly as he walked into the kitchen in just a pair of sleep pants. Making a beeline for the coffee pot, he poured himself a cup before taking a seat at the table.

He wasn't too surprised to see Omi and Ken there. The chibi, apparently, hadn't made any attempt at sleep. He looked just as tired as the other two, but at least he was still dressed in a pair of shorts and a gray t-shirt. Ken looked worse for wear, his blue bathrobe half open to reveal a pair of white briefs as he sat sprawled in the chair, cradling his chipped, blue coffee cup.

"Can't sleep?" he asked, receiving two dirty looks for his comment.

"No, we're always here at two a.m. You're usually too drunk to notice."

"Who pissed in your Wheaties?" Yohji questioned, forcing a smile. Ken just shook his head and took another drink.

"Something on your mind, Yohji-kun?" Omi asked.

Yohji shrugged, not quite ready to pour his heart out.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the house. The refrigerator began to hum.

"You guys remember it?" Ken asked, not looking at them, "Your first kill?"

Omi nodded. Yohji sat still and stared into his coffee.

"I was so scared. I damn near wet myself. Then we get there…it went so fast," he shook his head and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, "I was all geared up. Then we get out of there and it was just…gods. I threw up on the way home."

"Yeah, in my damn car," Yohji contributed with a rueful look that changed easily into a small smile. Ken offered one in return.

"I," Omi started, stopped, then found himself watched and went on, "well, you remember. Not exactly professional."

Again they all shared a smile, but it was harder that time. Yohji remembered Omi's first kill, not for the target, but for the way the kid had cried. It had been miserable, trying to comfort him when they had barely known each other.

"How about you?" Ken asked.

Yohji didn't want to answer that, not really, but he felt obligated in the face of their openness.

"It was before," he said simply, "He was gonna kill my partner. I don't regret it."

"Did you throw up?" Ken was baiting him.

Yohji scoffed, "I got my ass good and drunk. Then I threw up."

"Great coping mechanism, Kudou," Ken returned easily, giving him another one of those meager smiles.

It might have been a lousy conversation, but Yohji was glad to have it with people who understood. And it kept them from going over it alone.

* * *

Aya stood in front of the window, staring out into the darkness.

It had been awkward before, with both he and Yohji lying awake in bed. He hadn't wanted to talk and had ultimately feigned sleep so Yohji would leave him alone, half surprised when it actually worked. The blonde had shifted him gently and had gotten up and gone away.

There had been a moment of fear, and Aya had almost dropped his act to ask the blonde to stay.

But he didn't want to talk. And if Yohji staid, they would talk.

Taking a deep breath, Aya thought about what he had to do. Part of him, a decidedly weak part, screamed for him to get out. He shut it down forcibly. He had failed at many things, but Aya knew how to be strong and how to get through.

He didn't think he would die.

He could do this. He knew it. One swing of the sword, correct angle, enough force.

The man would die, along with the last of his fragile honor. There wasn't much left, only that tiniest bit of reserve, the fact that he had tried his best for his sister and that he hadn't committed any crime intentionally.

But the rest was gone, much ebbed away as he had realized what he was, the remainder taken by Crawford and Schuldig and the rest of them. And this tiny bit, that was his to give away.

He would. For her, Aya would.

* * *

"_It would be disgraceful, Amiko! To have such a—"_

"_Husband, please. I'm not saying he should run the company, certainly not, but can you really exclude him all together? What about your father's wishes?"_

"_It's a matter of pride. I can't let the family name be taken over by that, that…he's my son, Amiko, but he can't be entrusted with the family name."_

"_Don't worry. Aya will have a good husband. You've made sure of it."_

"_Yes. Her son…he'll be what we want. But father—"_

_Leaning on the wall just outside the open door, Ran listened to his parents talk. Only five, he already knew the familiar words. Different. Strange. Foreign. Freak. Him. _

_He had caused so much trouble, and now his father... He didn't understand that part, not all of it, but he knew about honor and rightness, and he knew that he had messed up somehow._

"_Little Ran?" a voice said suddenly from behind him. He jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his grandfather. A guilty blush stained his cheeks as he was found eavesdropping. _

_But the old man just smiled. _

_It was late at night, and his grandfather wore a dark blue yukata over light pants, looking regal and elegant even in this informality .His wrinkled face was drawn in concern, but not unfriendly. Gently, he took the boy's hand and led him down the length of the covered porch. They sat together on the wooden steps, looking out at the night-dimmed garden. Aya could hear the fountain even though he couldn't see it._

_He loved his grandfather's house. It was quiet and traditional, the large Fujimiya family home tucked away in the mountains. They came to visit several times a year, and his grandfather always seemed so pleased to see them, even him._

"_You're too young to be listening to that talk, little Ran," he said, not unkindly as he reached to tug the boy's gray yukata back up on his shoulder. Ran wore a lot of gray; his mother said it helped his hair, as much as anything could._

"_I'm sorry," the boy apologized. He watched his bare feet, scooting them along the wood._

_They sat still for a few minutes, and Ran wondered if his grandfather was waiting to tell on him. Then the old man shifted. With a grunt, he stood._

"_I want to show you something."_

_They walked again, around the corner and to another door. His grandfather carefully slid open the door and ushered him inside, pausing for a moment to turn on a lamp._

_It was a large, open room, with polished floors. On one side there were shelves and pictures, and it was here that Ran was led by his grandfather. _

"_Look here," the man said, taking down one of the pictures and handing it to Ran. He held it with both hands, staring at the young man in the black and white photograph. He wore a gi and hakama and was holding a large trophy._

"_That's me," his grandfather explained, smiling again. "I was a great kendo competitor."_

_He took away the picture and pointed to a shelf. The trophy sat there, the tallest among many others. Ran stood in awe, looking up at all the things his grandfather had won. He was a great man. _

_The man slowly led him to another shelf. On top of it Ran saw a sword._

"_You see that?"_

_He nodded._

"_That belonged to your ancestor, Kiran. You were named for him._

"_He was a samurai, Ran, one of the best. He fought for justice, and he saved many lives. Your father believes his name means 'spirit of the orchid,' but I think he is wrong. The kanji are different from yours, but they are old and debatable. You know what 'kira' is, little Ran?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Killer," his grandfather answered seriously. "Kiran knew that that he couldn't sit still and bring justice. He knew that he had to step forward and fight for what he believed in, and in that way he became an honorable man."_

_Carefully his grandfather knelt stiffly beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder._

"_Grandfather?" he questioned._

"_You're directly descended from him, Ran. You're the eldest son of the eldest son, all the way back. No matter what your father decides, you are worthy of every bit of…that sword will be yours._

"_You see that, over there?" he asked, gesturing across the room to a shinai lying in the corner. Ran nodded. "Go get it for me."_

_Ran hurried to do as he was bid, but when he tried to hand the practice sword to the old man, his grandfather pushed it away._

"_Keep it. Take it with you, and learn to use it. Take action, Ran. Make yourself into a good man, a strong man who doesn't sit by while bad things happen to them. Make your own honorable path, and when you are a man, come back to me and I will give you that sword. _

"_That will be your inheritance."_

* * *

At some point in his life, after he had figured out exactly what it meant to be largely excluded from his father's estate and business, Aya had dreamed of becoming something else. He knew that he would be a banker or lawyer, but even at the age of twelve he had secreted away dreams of becoming a samurai. Now that dream came back to him, twisted, but there.

He would go out into the night and exact justice. The man deserved to die, he knew, and the police would do nothing, just as they had done nothing for him. He hadn't deserved it. But these girls—so much like Aya-chan—they didn't deserve to be hurt. Aya would exact revenge for them. He wanted to.

And that scared him.

Was he so strange, so wrong, that he wanted to be a murderer? Was Crawford right, that he was filthy? Had it been more than superstition that told his father his soul was that of a demon?

His grandfather had been right, he was like Kiran. He was a killer, and a sword was definitely part of his inheritance. It wasn't the samurai sword he had longed for, but it would do the bloody work he was meant for.

~tbc~


	84. Change Me

Author: *pokes chapter with a spork*

Subaru-san: That doesn't count as revision.

Author: *pouts* Anyway, to the point! Longest chapter so far, and probably the most difficult to write, so I hope that I've tortured it into something passable. Thanks for reading! *goes back to poking fic*

* * *

Chapter Eight-Four: Change Me

* * *

"I thought you were sleeping," Yohji said. It was after three in the morning, and he had put a lot of effort into keeping quiet as he slipped into the room, only to find Aya up and staring out the window. Wearing a pair of black cotton pajamas, the boy blended into the darkness, all but his pale hands and face that seemed to glow in the light of the nearly full moon.

"Hn," the boy replied.

"That's not an answer, you know," the blonde replied, still a bit amused by this newest addition to Aya's common vocabulary. Going over, he leaned one shoulder against the edge of the window and joined Aya in looking down at the streetlights. "Couldn't sleep?"

Now there was no answer at all.

"Come to bed, Aya. There's no point thinking about it."

* * *

Stepping out of the shower, Yohji threw a towel over his head and quickly dried his hair. After a cursory pat down of his body he tossed the cloth aside and opened the door.

"Clothes are not optional!" Ken called in passing, not the least surprised to see the naked playboy step into the hallway.

"In a hurry," Yohji called back, already on his way to his room, "and you know you want me."

"Yeah, you and a hernia."

Dropping the conversation, Yohji entered his room and quickly dug around for some clothes. As he pulled on a pair of tight corduroy pants and a maroon polo shirt, he wondered where Aya had gotten to. After their late night, the blonde had woken late to an empty bed, and he had a feeling that it wasn't the best day to leave Aya to his own devices. Based on what he had seen last night, the boy might develop a penchant for brooding.

Now clothed, he crossed through the hall and down the steps, only to have Ken fall in behind him. The brunette was carrying a large bag of sports equipment and paused in the kitchen only to grab a bottle of blue stuff before wishing him goodbye.

"Hey," Yohji called him momentarily back, "Where's Aya?"

"I think he's in the shop."

Nodding in thanks for the information, Yohji grabbed a cereal bar from the cabinet and, after checking that it wasn't the dreaded blueberry kind, shoved most of it in his mouth. With his free hand, he retrieved his coffee cup, filled it with the dregs from the coffeemaker, and popped it in the microwave. He ate the rest of the cereal bar as he waited, then took the coffee with him as he made his way to the shop.

"Afternoon, Yohji-kun," Omi greeted. It finally dawned on the blonde that it was Saturday, meaning the chibi was home and he had he not been rolled out of bed.

"Aya here?"

Omi gestured towards the worktable. Leaving his cup on the counter, Yohji headed in that direction.

Aya was sitting at the table, carefully selecting lilies from a pile at his left elbow and placing them into a glass vase along with several dark leaves. Only half-finished, the arrangement promised to be successful.

Purple eyes looked up as Yohji took a seat on the edge of the table.

"You could have woke me up," he said.

"It…it was early," Aya replied. A hand came up to tug on the silver ring of the collar, but after a couple pulls, he put the appendage back to work on the flowers, his eyes following it to the vase.

"Been up a while then?" Yohji wondered how much sleep the boy had gotten. Once they had settled down, the blonde had been dead to the world.

Aya nodded.

About to say something about a nap, Yohji was cut off by a particularly loud grumble from Aya's stomach. The boy actually blushed, hunching over a little in his seat and focusing resolutely on his arrangement.

"Eat any breakfast?" Yohji asked. He knew the answer. Aya had a bad habit of skipping meals, especially when Yohji wasn't there to force them on him. They were still working on that fixing-his-own-breakfast thing. It seemed being in the kitchen alone made him nervous, and Yohji had twice caught him anxiously debating what to do. The blonde supposed he generally gave up on the idea of food altogether, too nervous to touch something wrong. "Aya, did you have breakfast?"

No, Aya shook his head.

Yohji sighed.

"What do you want for lunch? I'll go get takeout."

Aya's brow creased over the question. Gods, it was almost painful to watch him internally debate the small, daily decisions.

"I…I'm not—"

"Don't say you're not hungry. You're still too skinny, and it's gonna be a long night. So pick something."

"I…soba, maybe?" he asked quietly, checking Yohji's face for a reaction.

"No problem. Think you and Omi can hold down the fort while I grab the food?"

* * *

"Where's Aya?" Yohji asked.

He was getting really damn tired of asking that question. It felt like he had been chasing Aya all day, ever since he had woken up without the boy there. He had gone to get lunch, only to have to hunt Aya down in the greenhouse; when he had finished closing shop, the redhead had disappeared to their room; and when he went to pick up Aya's gear, the boy was yet again not where Yohji had left him.

Only Omi was in the kitchen, cleaning up the remnants of their simple supper.

"Ken took him downstairs to warm up," the younger blonde answered, never pausing in collecting dishes and piling them in the sink. Omi didn't like to leave dirty dishes when they went out. He never said why, but, after some morbid consideration, Yohji thought that, should they fail to come back from slaying dark beasts, Omi didn't want Kritiker to find evidence they had been sloppy housekeepers.

Laying the heavy box and garment bag on the table, Yohji lit a cigarette. Omi gave him a hard look, but didn't say anything.

"Is that his stuff?"

"Yeah."

"Yohji-kun," the other paused, looking away as he stood with his hands in the sink, "stay close to him, okay?"

* * *

"Take it easy," Ken directed. "Don't wear yourself out."

Aya nodded. They had taken a few minutes to stretch and now faced off in the center of the floor.

"And try not to bang me up too much," the brunette added, smiling good naturedly. He was mostly joking, but over the last week it had become increasingly obvious that Aya could definitely kick his ass if the redhead put his mind to it.

* * *

Yohji was zipping up his coat when Aya walked into the bedroom carrying his sword.

"Hey," the blonde said, watching him through the mirror as he settled his shades on and adjusted his watch.

"Hn," Aya answered, or rather, not-answered.

"Your stuff's on the bed. Hope everything works."

Aya nodded and set his sword beside the collection of things. Yohji walked over to the bed and took a seat on the other side to watch him open the box and pull out a pair of heavy, black boots. Aya looked up at him.

"I…you," he paused, pulled on his hair, and tried again, "could you…"

Sparse as it was, Yohji got the just of what the boy wanted. He was getting very good at interpreting broken Aya-speak, and right now the boy wanted to be left alone to change.

"I'll meet you downstairs," he replied, standing up and grabbing his cigarettes from the nightstand before he headed to the door. "Don't take too long, princess."

* * *

They stood in the kitchen, dressed for the mission and ready to go. Omi was quietly adjusting a strap on his shorts, but Ken kept flexing and relaxing his hands, making his claws extend and retract, in short, engaging in a habit that severely annoyed the tall blonde next to him.

Yohji, of course, was smoking, so he didn't have much room to complain since neither of the others had said a word.

A slight noise from the doorway instantly had all their attentions. Aya stared back, wide-eyed as they all looked at him.

He looked dangerous. That was Yohji's first thought.

The second was that Aya looked damn good.

His hair seemed extra bright against the dark of his outfit, his eyes, too, oddly complimented by the shadow-colored coat that fit tightly around his waist and fell past his knees. Yohji noticed the buckles, at the waist, chest, on the boots and on the sleeves. And the collar. It took the blonde a second to figure out what Aya had done with that. Two thin leather straps circled his neck, buckled in front, pulling the shirt collar up around his neck and making it tight enough that Aya's other collar (that he was still fucking wearing) could lay, just barely, on top of them, creating an oddly layered look. The silver ring blended in with the buckles, leaving one to think it was all on purpose, and Yohji wondered if it was.

At Aya's side was his sword, held in his black-gloved hand.

Shifting his gaze upwards, Yohji realized he still had on the earring. It might catch light, but then again, so might the sword or the collar, and now was not the time to upset the boy with a fight.

Stubbing out his cigarette in the sink, Yohji went in for a closer inspection. Gently he reached up to tug just a bit on the collar, like he was adjusting it. Aya went to shy away under the touch, but then stood still, purple eyes meeting green with more question than fear.

"You look good," Yohji said.

"Yeah," Ken seconded, "Totally badass."

Yohji watched Aya's attention flick in the brunette's direction, and though he wasn't sure, he thought there might have been a spark of accomplishment in those eyes.

* * *

The noises of city nightlife buzzed around them, music and neon lights spilling onto the dark streets to taint the movements of clubgoers. They came and went in flashy clothes, chatting and fighting and touching after getting drunk, completely unaware.

Yohji was unabashedly envious. He saw a pretty girl walk by, pink dress too short and hair dyed unnaturally blonde, thought of having her on his arm, going about his business without a clue that some killer was lurking in the shadows.

Yohji decided his night job sucked.

He stood concealed in the dark alley with Aya, tucked safely into the shadows with their backs against the brick building. Yohji checked his watch. Two minutes to go. Ken and Omi should be inside the club, heading down through a stairwell. He and Aya were taking the other route, just in case, slipping into the back hall and down the service stairs there.

Tezushi's presence had been all but guaranteed, and according to the unusually helpful intel, he preferred to keep his latest catch in the basement room of the club, Testament, where he had some unsavory connections. Wouldn't want to take something like that home after all, might scare the wife and—

Fuck, no. He wasn't going there.

Green eyes drifted back to the street where people came and went. It was only a quarter after midnight, and the party was still going hard inside the large club, a condition that boded well for them to slip in unnoticed.

"What's your type?" he questioned, nudging Aya's arm and gesturing to another girl passing the entrance of the alley. The boy only stared at him. "You know, what kind of girls do you like?"

Nothing, only that frigid stare.

"Boys?" he tried. Nothing, not that he expected it. It wasn't Aya's job to distract him.

Yohji checked his watch again. One minute.

He chanced a glance at Aya, only to find the boy still watching him with that eerily impassive face.

"Ready?" he asked.

Aya nodded.

Yohji flicked his cigarette to the ground, said a quick prayer to whatever demented gods were listening, and told Aya to stick close.

* * *

"Basement," Omi spoke into the mike as he stowed the lock pick.

"Confirm," Yohji's voice came back in his ear. Seconds later, the blonde stepped noiselessly through the door to their right, Aya directly behind him, equally quiet and with no visible signs of apprehension. Omi had expected him to look nervous or scared or at least keyed up. Something. But the by met his stare with cold deliberation. Turning his eyes uncomfortably away, Omi silently gestured at the door in front of them; Yohji nodded. He took up position at the right, drawing out a length of wire. Aya was next to him, while Omi took the left with Ken at his side. Another nod, and Yohji made a quick turn and kicked the door. It flew open with a wooden thud as it banged loudly into the wall. Turning again just to his right, Yohji snared a muscular bodyguard guard in his ready wire, yanking him up close to his own body as the harigane pulled taut.

Omi didn't have time to watch. He ducked the swing of the second guard, crouching, ready to attack, but Ken beat him to it. Slamming his shoulder hard against the man, he ran him back into the wall; he took a half step away to swing at his head, knocking the man unconscious. A glance to the right proved Yohji's prey to be slumped on the floor in a similar condition.

It wasn't Weiss's normal MO, but they had talked about it beforehand. Nobody wanted to freak Aya out with too much killing beforehand. It would come to that soon enough.

The boy was staring at the bodyguard Yohji had taken down, but before Omi could say anything, Yohji snagged a dark sleeve and gave a brief tug. Aya's attention snapped to the older man's face.

"Let's go," Omi said, hurrying to the next door, the one that should reveal their target. Four to one, it would be fine; the question was whether or not Aya could go through with it. "Abyssinian, get ready."

* * *

Ready. He had to clear his mind. Just like in practice.

His emotions cried out that it wasn't practice, that he ought to be scared, that he had just seen Yohji take down a grown man and that he could never do that.

But he put the feelings away, buried them under the facts. He had to do this. There wasn't a choice; Yohji said so. And while Ran might not have been able to do it, Aya, Abyssinian could. It didn't matter what he did.

Aya braced himself, sheathed sword lifted at his side and feet firmly planted. He called Tezushi's face into his mind, then someone moved, there was a noise, and the door was gone.

Hunched over, Tezushi had one hand tangled in the matted hair of an unconscious girl, the other raised to strike her again as he drug her upwards. The girl was obviously battered, her face a swollen mass of bruises, and Tezushi's jeans and white tank top were dirty and spotted with her blood, his grey eyes narrowed in rage that turned quickly to shaken guilt.

He straightened quickly, the body of the girl dropping to his feet with a sick thud of dead weight. She had dark hair, and for Aya there was a flash of something long forgotten, Aya-chan, shoved, falling on the playground. Anger surged at a thousand impossibly scenarios, all the dread he'd lived with so long, of his sister being hurt, of someone like Tezushi hurting her like…like…

Tezushi could only look at him, startled, afraid.

The sword felt light in his hands, and with one lunge, Aya pulled it from the sheath and struck, hard and sure, across Tezushi's middle, slicing him open. Intestines spilled towards the floor and blood splashed back, warm on Aya's hands and face, threatening to overwhelm with.

He pushed it aside, forcing his blade the rest of the way through, trying not to hear the tearing sound it made, the slick plop of Tezushi's insides on the cement floor, the choked gasp of the man's last breaths as he fell backwards to bleed out in a dark puddle. The sword came free in an upward arc, slinging blood outward before it fell to Aya's side.

All Aya could do was watch, horrified, as blood poured out, more than he had expected, flowing slowly under Tezushi's body, his own boots, under the girl's thin arm, in her hair. And it was on him.

* * *

Aya was perfectly still, looking like a blood-splashed statue.

"Shit!" Yohji swore, desperately searching his pockets only to have Ken shove a wrinkled, white cloth at him. He grabbed it and went quickly to Aya's side, swiping it roughly over the boy's bloody face. Yohji felt Omi walk behind him, and saw the younger blonde gathering up the girl, motioning for Ken to help move her. Yohji concerned himself with Aya, who wasn't moving.

With two unconscious witnesses, they didn't have time to dick around.

"Come on," he said. Aya looked up at him, expression blank, like he didn't even recognize the blonde. Then the eyes went down, raking over the dead body and settling on his own bloody sword. "Shit, okay," Yohji agreed to something unsaid. Grabbing Aya's hand to hold it still, he ran the cloth over the sword's blade before tossing it onto the body.

"Aya. Put it up, we have to go. Now," Yohji said.

Aya took one, gasping kind of breath, seeming to come back a little. Yohji got no response, but he was glad to see the boy sheath the sword. Gripping the weapon tightly, he turned to look at Yohji, searching for something. The blonde had no fucking clue what it was, but he wanted Aya out of there, now.

* * *

They stood behind the club, waiting for Ken. He hand lingered to finish off the two bodyguards and appeared satisfied with the work as he slipped out the back door.

Once more in the shadows, they took a moment to regroup, getting ready to split off to their respective vehicles. Two and two, now, Omi remembered. He liked that better, not sending Yohji off on his own. Omi ran a quick glance over Aya only to find the boy staring at him, expression completely blank, like he couldn't care less about what was going on.

How could he be so cold?

Blue eyes sought Yohji's for information, but the older man had his dark glasses pressed all the way onto his face. Holding a lighter to the cigarette clenched between his teeth, he was staring at the trashcans across the alley. So Omi looked to Ken, who met his stare evenly if not with confidence; brown eyes flicked to Aya, then back. There was concern there as well as a question, and the brunette seemed unnerved by Aya's reaction.

So it wasn't just him.

It occurred to Omi that maybe Aya's reaction was just delayed. Maybe that was better. Not that he wanted Aya to have another breakdown or anything, but some kind of acknowledgement would make Omi feel less…unsure about the boy. But, no matter what was going to happen, they should get him home and deal with it there.

* * *

They hadn't spoken a word. It wasn't an easy silence, and Yohji wanted to say something, anything, but disregarded one idea after another. They couldn't exactly chat about the weather, or how nice the drive was. Aya wasn't a great conversationalist on the best days, and now, the boy was sitting next to him in the Seven with a man's blood splattered over his coat. Glancing over, he found Aya staring hard at his own hands.

No, not in the mood for chit chat.

Yohji thrived on that sort of thing, idle chatter to keep from thinking about shit. Aya, obviously, was a thinker.

A few long, silent minutes later, they pulled into the garage. Yohji felt something inside him slowly begin to uncoil, a hard, metal thing that had been tightening for weeks. It had gotten worse and worse with every bit of preparation. It was like a sick game, but now they were back at home base. Aya had done it, and he was safe.

Aya got out of the car silently and waited for Yohji to walk around and go into the house first before following him. It was just like what they always did, coming home late after the kid's kendo practice. Feeling better, Yohji was cautious of being too optimistic, even after the fact. As with so many things involving Aya, he was waiting for the fallout.

They met Ken and Omi in the kitchen. For a second, no one said anything, and Yohji wondered if it was just going to be one of those nights. If so, he needed a beer, right now. Thankfully, Ken stepped in to prevent a headfirst dive into alcoholism.

"No problems, huh?"

They were all looking at Aya, like he was gonna do a trick or something. Hell, hadn't he done enough, managing to get through that without screwing over the mission? Yohji wondered if Omi was worried over the boy's hesitation, but it had only been a second, and Aya had gotten moving pretty quick. At least the first time.

"Successful mission, right?" he questioned, looking hard at Omi, half threatening without really meaning to. It took a second for blue eyes to come off of Aya and to him.

"Yes," Omi confirmed. His word meant more, meant that the report would say so. "No problems."

"Good," Yohji returned, a little surprised by the coldness of his own voice. Damn but the stress was getting him. He wasn't used to standing around after a mission; he wanted, almost needed, to go out. He wanted to shower and change, grab a beer and a girl and pretend he'd never heard of Weiss.

But he couldn't. He had Aya.

He wasn't going to leave him, but Yohji hated it, standing there, waiting for Aya to freak out and watching the others watch him. Enough.

"Well ladies, we're gonna get to bed. Come on, Aya."

* * *

The boy pulled back suddenly, out of Yohji's reach.

"I can do it," he said.

Yohji was momentarily stunned. He always helped Aya with his coat.

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, he almost reached again before getting ahold of himself. Aya had just killed a man; he could get his own damn coat off if he wanted.

"Okay," Yohji conceded, determined not to snap at him. "Look here."

Bending down, he pulled a large, opaque garage bag from underneath the sink. It was green and had 'biodegradable' written on it, something used for yard waste or floral clippings. Yohji laid it on the sink.

"Put your clothes in here. Everything but socks and underwear. They'll pick it up, and," he shrugged. Aya nodded, staring down at the dried blood spattered over his coat. He looked a bit ill, so Yohji skipped the details.

"Need anything else?"

No, Aya shook his head. Feeling useless, Yohji left the room.

* * *

After a beer (he thought himself entitled to that much) and quick glance at the news, Yohji returned to his bedroom. Aya wasn't there yet.

Letting his coat drop from his shoulders, Yohji shifted it to his right hand then draped it over the chair. He'd put it away later. Peeling off his top, he tossed it towards the hamper, missed, and realized he didn't really give a damn.

Yes, it was one of those kinds of nights.

Come home he had wavered between relief and unease, insisting to himself that he was happy, that Aya was safe, and that things had gone according to plan.

But something kept prickling at the back of his mind, insisting that things had not gone so smoothly, at least, not according to his plan.

With a sigh Yohji sat down on the edge of the bed. He grabbed a new pack of cigarettes from the nightstand, tore off the plastic, and lit one.

He had developed a pretty good idea of how things were gonna go down. They would go, Aya would make the kill, and then Yohji would take care of him. But Aya had made it perfectly clear that he didn't want to be taken care of. It wasn't so much a blatant denial, but all the little things that finally registered in Yohji's mind: the cold stare of purple eyes, the tense way Aya had held himself, the slight edging away in the alley, the silence on the way home, and the way he had pulled back from Yohji's hand thirty minutes before.

That hurt. Yohji wondered if he had created that rift between them, encouraging Aya to be colder by forcing him into the mission.

The ash from his cigarette landed in his pants, and Yohji brushed it away irritably. Searching for the ashtray, he unearthed it from the array of junk on his nightstand and stubbed out his half-finished smoke. About to get up and find something to sleep in, he stood only to see Aya walk into the room in a towel and collar.

The boy barely looked at him. Skin red from the shower and hair still wet, he held a few pieces of clothes in one hand while the other held the towel tightly around his waist. He barely looked at Yohji, keeping his eyes down as he deposited his socks and underwear into the hamper and opened the dresser drawer to get out a pair of pajamas.

"Okay?" Yohji asked, standing in the middle of the room watching Aya lay his nightclothes on the bed. All he got in reply was a terse nod, Aya not even looking up. Hands on his hips, Yohji stared at him for a few minutes. Aya seemed oblivious to the look, getting his black, cotton pants up over his hips before setting aside the towel and pulling on the button up sleep shirt.

"Here," Yohji offered, coming over to do up the buttons. It was getting to be second nature, those little adjustments of the boy's clothes or hair or whatever. Now, though, Aya stepped back, away from his and.

"Aya," he complained, reaching again. Again Aya stepped back, shoulder bumping into the wall and seeming to startle him. "What's the matter?"

No, Aya shook his head, looking at the carpet as one hand came up to pull hard on a wet eartail. Interpreting that as a 'nothing,' Yohji stepped closer, unnerved as Aya tried to back away again, flattening his back against the wall and cringing when the blonde stepped close.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Forgetting about the shirt, Yohji reached for Aya's chin, hoping to get the boy to look at him. He never expected Aya to knock his hand aside.

"Don't!"

"Aya, what the hell is—" In the process of reaching again, Yohji found himself shoved backwards. Half expecting Aya to come after him, he was shocked to watched the boy sink to the floor and try to curl up.

Aya didn't look fierce now, sitting on the floor yanking hard on his hair, but his voice was strong and demanding, "Don't touch me!"

~tbc~

Notes: Review, please? Yohji needs you to give him some…advice.


	85. Crack Me

Chapter Eighty-Five: Crack Me

* * *

Yohji stared down at the boy, wondering how this had become a normal part of his life. Shaking his head, he went to go put a shirt on, giving Aya a little space and a minute to collect himself if he could. He found a white t-shirt in the dresser and, after a glance at the redhead, decided to take a few more minutes to put on a pair of sweatpants as well. A shower would have to wait.

Walking back to Aya, Yohji sat down on the floor in front of him. He reached out a hand, intending to get Aya's own away from his much-abused hair. That, however, didn't happen.

"Don't touch me!" Aya repeated as he pressed further back against the wall.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Yohji told him. It was getting to be an old line, but it seemed the boy needed to hear it. Yohji still fostered meager hopes that one day it would sink in. "You know that?"

"Yes," Aya whispered, the word almost lost as he bent his head down.

Going with the words and not his actions (a tactic that had worked in the past), Yohji reached again.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Aya yelled, swatting his hand away. Shocked, Yohji watched as the boy moaned almost like he was in pain, scrunching even further into himself. His hand slipped from his hair, both arms crossing over his stomach.

"Aya," Yohji started, quietly, with a calm he wasn't really feeling. He was not trained to deal with this. "What's wrong?" When there was silence, Yohji tried again, "Tell me what's wrong."

"It's…you can't," he said, a stressed tone.

"I can't what?"

"You…Yohji…"

"Look at me," he said, waiting patiently as purple eyes came up. Half-hidden by wet, red bangs, they were desperate. Yohji held the look, slowly lifted a hand, making sure Aya saw it first, before tentatively touching his fingers to Aya's hair.

"It's okay," Yohji assured when the boy shivered under his touch. The desperation in his eyes only increased.

"How can you do that?" Aya asked.

"Do what?" Yohji returned, keeping his movement slow as he reached down to find one of Aya's hands, pulling it up and setting it on the boy's knee, slowly untangling him.

"Don't," Aya said, not moving. "Don't touch."

"Why?"

Aya tried to get his hand back, but Yohji had it in his grasp. Using his free hand, he brushed through the boy's hair, trying to think of what to say.

"Father was right," Aya said suddenly, with so much pain in his voice that Yohji stilled his hand to listen, "I…I'm not…don't touch me, Yohji."

"Shh, stop that," he said when Aya tried to pull his head away. "You're fine. You didn't do anything the rest of us haven't done."

No, Aya shook his head adamantly and once again tried to pull his hand out of Yohji's grasp.

"Yes," Yohji refuted the silent reply. "Ken, Omi, me…we've all killed people, Aya. You're not any different. Stop that."

Aya stilled, no longer trying to get his hand away. For a few long minutes, Yohji just sat there, running his fingers through Aya's hair, trying to think of what to say that would make it better.

"You know…Omi and Ken, anybody, you don't have to let them touch you. But me," he sighed, knowing he should group himself in with the others but a little afraid Aya wouldn't ever let him get close again. "It'd be hard, not to touch you, like this. I'm kinda attached to you, Princess…I like this."

Aya looked him in the eyes, searching for something. Slowly, carefully, Yohji let his fingers slide down to brush over the boy's pale cheek.

"Do you, Aya? Do you like this?"

When the other answered, it was barely a whisper, one quiet word slipping through dry lips, "Yes."

"Then don't worry about the rest of it."

* * *

"Weird, huh?" Ken asked.

Omi agreed. He had expected…something else.

"I thought he'd freak out or something," Ken continued, not really talking to the blonde as he removed his shirt and tossed it on his bed, getting ready to take a shower now that Omi was done. "I mean, didn't you?"

There was an unspoken question there, one they were both thinking: what kind of person killed someone and didn't react? There was hypocrisy in the thought, accusing Aya of something they did every week, but the boy wasn't a seasoned assassin—not yet—and they sure hadn't been so calm the first time around.

* * *

_The iron rings tugged at his wrists, biting into the skin as his arms were anchored above his head, dragging him upwards so that his feet barely touched the floor. Too tired to fight, Aya tried only to shift a little so he might look around._

_It was the room with the stone floors, lit by the one swinging light. At one time he had thought it was a basement, but it had long ceased to matter._

_A warm, smooth hand ran over his back, and Schuldig moved close to him, half leaning on him as he smiled._

"_You shouldn't have done that," he said. "Such a naughty kätzchen."_

_The door opened behind them, and the German's head jerked up, his hand instantly removed from Aya's back._

"_Get away from him."_

_Crawford. There was no relief with the thought._

_Schuldig continued to grin, but he backed away to lean against the far wall._

_/How lucky. He's taken time out of his schedule to see you. Aren't you grateful?/_

_Heels clicked on the floor, and Crawford walked to stand in front of him, Nagi silent at his side. For a long second, he just looked at Aya, then, with a motion the boy couldn't even follow, reached out and punched him hard in the stomach. Aya coughed weakly, trying to catch his breath._

_Crawford began to unbutton his cream-colored suit coat, letting it slide from his shoulders and into Nagi's waiting hands. Next he began to undo his sleeves._

"_You broke the rules," he accused, flipping one sleeve crisply back and starting to roll it up. "Again."_

_He glared at Aya intensely as he finished his chore, then held a hand out to have Nagi place a small, black whip into it. The leather curled around his pale fingers, and Aya had to look away._

"_Anything to say?" Crawford questioned._

"_I hate you," Aya spat, teeth clenched as the sudden wash of despise took him. He hated it all, and whether or not the man killed him, it was worth saying._

_Crawford grabbed his chin, hard enough to bruise, and wrenched it up so that their eyes met._

"_The hate of a dog is nothing to me."_

_The handle of the whip came down hard on Aya's chest, an odd, aching wound. Before he could recover, Crawford was behind him._

"_Disobedient," the man's cold voice stated. The whip cracked, and a line of fire shot across Aya's lower back._

"_Stupid," Crawford said. Pain, higher, across his shoulder. With each word that followed, a lash._

"_Dirty."_

"_Pathetic."_

"_Filthy."_

"_Weak."_

"_Slave," the man finished with no more emotion than when he started. Seven lashes. Aya felt the blood starting to drip down his back and had the fleeting thought that it wasn't as bad as he expected._

_/He's in a hurry./ Glancing up, he noticed that Schuldig's smile was gone._

"_Clean him up," Crawford ordered. "And put something on those so it doesn't scar. Nagi."_

_The door opened and closed._

"_Just us," Schuldig whispered. Aya wondered how he had gotten so close so quickly, standing behind him, those smooth hands again on his back. "He's always so rough with you."_

_There was a fluttering touch on the back of his neck, and when Aya realized it was a kiss, he shuddered. Schuldig laughed, low in his chest, as his hands ran down Aya's thin sides, lower, over his hips, terrible in their gentleness._

"_I'll be nice to you."_

_Lower. Aya closed his eyes over the feeling of shame. It was worse. It was so much worse._

"_Don't you like it, kätzchen?"_

* * *

Yohji gasped for air as Aya's elbow landed hard in his stomach but refused to relinquish his position. Clamping his arm around the boy's thin waist, he drug him resolutely backward, getting a struggling Aya into his lap and maneuvering him into a kind of bear hug to trap his arms.

"Aya! Wake up, damnit! Aya!"

Suddenly, the desperate flailing stopped.

"Yohji?" a quiet voice asked him.

"Yeah," he sighed, resting his head on Aya's shoulder. "You gave me a fucking heart attack just now. Awake?"

He thought Aya nodded, but with the boy facing away from him in the dark it was hard to tell.

"Nightmare?"

Nothing. With another sigh, Yohji shifted them a bit, backing against the headboard and reaching to turn on the lamp. Aya was stiff, but he wasn't trying to get away.

"Nightmare?" he asked again, letting Aya loose and watching the boy withdraw to his side of the bed. Surveying it in the light, the blonde realized their bed looked a little worse for wear, the sheets and blankets tangled, the pillows missing. "Aya, nightmare?"

He knew it was, but it would make him feel better to hear Aya acknowledge it. But Aya shook his head, no.

"Really?" Yohji asked, half sarcastic as he grabbed his cigarettes and lit up. Smoke in one hand, he used his other to push at his hair, finding it damp with sweat. Aya had fought like the devil.

"It...no, not exactly," the boy said. Aya was curled up again, picking at a loose string on his pant cuff and not looking at Yohji. "I'm sorry."

"Tell me about it?" Yohji kept it a question.

No.

"Please?"

"Can I go downstairs?"

"It's four in the morning," Yohji replied, exhaling smoke and watching it drift towards the ceiling. "Let's talk."

The glare Aya was giving him made it clear that the boy did not want to talk. Well, Yohji didn't want to be awake, so tough.

"I'm sorry," Aya said again.

"I'm not mad," Yohji lied. He wasn't mad at Aya, but he was awake for the third time in not that many hours with more than one bruise to show for it. And he was worried. Besides the night after his doctor's visit, Aya hadn't had these kinds of dreams, the kind where he woke up fighting, screaming even, trying to get away from…something.

The first one had been about the mission; Yohji had no doubt of that. Aya had been screaming about blood and apologizing. The second time he wasn't so sure, knowing only that Aya had been crying, despite the fact that he'd denied it the moment he'd been conscious. And now this.

"What did you dream about?" he asked out right.

"It doesn't matter."

Well, someone was being awfully resistant tonight. Giving the boy a sideways look, Yohji was met with a glare. It almost made him smile, but he held the serious look, determined to make Aya tell him.

"No," he sighed, "I guess it doesn't. It's just got you screaming in the middle of the night."

The glare fell away, leaving Aya looking too young.

"Aya…shit, I just wanna help."

A long silence followed, Aya picking again at the string. Yohji had counted his loss when the boy started talking.

"I…about them. I dreamed about them," Aya said quietly.

"Who?"

"My master. His men. The things they did."

Yohji was afraid to move too much, to breathe too hard, anything that might stop him.

"What did they do?" he risked.

"They hurt me," Aya said simply.

~tbc~

Notes: Review?


	86. Consider Me

Chapter Eighty-Six: Consider Me

* * *

"Shit, Aya," Yohji huffed, "couldn't you at least wait till lunch?"

"Sorry," Aya got out before leaning back over the toilet to finish throwing up his breakfast.

Yohji sighed, gathering red hair more carefully in his hands, trying to keep the long strands back. It had been a rough night, and the day wasn't looking much better.

"Okay?" he asked, and when Aya nodded, left him to wet a washcloth and hand it over. He watched the boy wipe his mouth and sit back on his heels. He looked too pale, even with his cheeks trying to blush in embarrassment. "You really okay?"

* * *

"Hey, I'm gonna run to the store. Can you get Aya?"

Omi nodded, taking the broom from Yohji outstretched hand, "Get something for supper."

"Huh? Sure."

It had been a slow day, and they were almost done closing up, so Omi left Ken to finish the sweeping and went out to the greenhouse. Disengaging the alarm, he stepped inside.

Immediately his senses were assaulted with the humidity of the place, and hard on that was the smell of dirt. Where there had been junk before was now an orderly array of trays, sprouting trays followed by small planting ones and even a few pots. Here and there were beginnings of green. All and all, it looked very professional.

At the end of one of the tables, Aya was poking at a tray with the eraser end of a pencil. Omi walked over.

"Wow, Aya-kun, it looks great!"

The boy looked away, focused on the tray in front of him.

"How'd you know how to do this?"

"I," he stopped, put down the pencil, "Yohji bought me a book."

"I'll have to read it sometime."

Aya nodded.

"Come on in; we're cleaning up." Reaching to take Aya's arm, he was surprised when the boy stepped out of range and gave him a rather cold stare.

"Don't touch me," Aya said.

Taken aback, Omi couldn't do more than nod. When he turned to go, he found Aya followed him just fine, but the whole thing was slightly disconcerting.

* * *

"Here," Yohji pronounced, opening his shopping bag and tossing a few items onto the kitchen table.

Omi picked up a small tub, turning it around so he could read the label: pimento cheese.

"Yohji-kun, I mean something I could cook—or at least a pizza!"

"Sorry, chibi, wasn't grocery shopping," he explained.

"Where'd you go?"

"Gas station," Yohji explained, tipping the bag over and dumping out three cartons of cigarettes. He seemed to be in a hurry to get into one of them, tearing the end off rather roughly and shaking out a pack. He was well on his way to having the plastic off by the time Omi figured out what he'd been out for.

"So many?" He really didn't like Yohji smoking so much, and three cartons seemed like overkill even for him.

The blonde just shrugged, "Been going through the damn things."

Shaking his head, Omi opened the loaf of bread. Collecting paper plates and a knife, he set them on the table, sighing over the meager looking dinner.

"Did you get anything else?" he questioned, hoping for a bag or chips. Yohji, cigarette already in his mouth, nodded. "What?"

"This," the other answered, holding up a lighter. When Omi didn't respond, he used it to light his cigarette.

"Not in the kitchen."

"Not in the kitchen," Yohji mocked, words a little slurred around the cigarette, "I brought you your damn dinner."

* * *

By the time Yohji made it back inside, Ken and Omi were at the table making their way through a couple sandwiches. Someone must have unearthed chips after all, since a rumpled bag sat in the middle of the table. Something, however, was missing.

"Where's Aya?" Yohji asked, grabbing a plate without sitting down and starting to put together a sandwich.

"Upstairs," Ken said around a mouthful of food.

"Didn't you guys go get him?"

Ken rolled his eyes, swallowing before he answered, "I asked if he was coming down and he said he wasn't."

"Huh," Yohji considered. That was a first. Aya hadn't been having the best day, and while he could probably get the boy to come down and eat, Yohji wasn't sure it was worth the confrontation. Deciding to make an extra sandwich and take it upstairs with his own food, the blonde was inadvertently detained by Omi's next comment.

* * *

Five minutes later, Yohji was shouting. He had some vague recollection of how it had come to this, but all that mattered at the moment was telling Omi exactly how fucking wrong he was.

"What do you know?" he asked, slamming his hand down on the table.

"Yohji-kun, I was just—"

"Just what? Just making goddamn assumptions, trying to make it like Aya's some…some monster or something!"

"I didn't say that!" Omi defended, eyes wide in the face of Yohji's anger.

"What do you want? You want him to have a fucking breakdown and tell us all how he's feeling? You want tears or some other bullshit? You need proof that he's 'normal'? Well guess what, none of us are fucking normal!"

"Calm down," Ken demanded, standing now behind Omi's chair as Yohji loomed over him. Immediately, he was in Ken's face.

"Calm down," he repeated, laughing darkly, "how can I calm down when you two are down here plotting, making Aya out to be—"

"I didn't say that!" Omi cried. "I just said that the genetic alteration might make him less susceptible to emotions. Yohji-kun—"

"Shut up," Yohji said. He took a breath, step back, trying to make himself less than furious; it wasn't working very well. "You didn't see him. He's a fucking mess, Omi. Nightmares all night long. Scared to let me touch him. Hell, he hasn't even managed to keep any food down today.

"Does that make you feel better? He kept it together until the mission was over, that's a hell of a lot more than either of you two managed." It wasn't nice, throwing that in their faces, but he was pissed enough to do it. They were dismissing all of it, everything Aya was going through, on the premise of genetic engineering. Was it that hard to see that the boy was a mess? And why hadn't they bothered to ask Yohji?

"We didn't know," Omi said quietly. Yohji hmphed and began gathering up his dinner. He didn't feel much like eating, but Aya definitely needed food. "Yohji-kun, I didn't mean anything bad, please."

Wide blue eyes pleaded with him.

"I don't know what you're thinking," he looked away, ignoring those eyes, refusing the apology as he silently left the room. They needed to sit and think about he said, and Yohji needed to cool off before he hit one of them. What he had previously considered supportive, if quiet, members of his effort to help Aya had turned traitorous, leaving it to him.

He still wasn't sure he was ready for the responsibility.

"Hey," he said quietly as he pushed the bedroom door open with his hip. Aya was on the bed, reading. "Dinner's here."

* * *

"Well, I feel like shit, you?" Ken questioned as he resettled in his seat at the kitchen table. He looked at his half-eaten sandwich for a second before shoving the rest of it into his mouth.

Omi just nodded. He hadn't meant to make Yohji angry, and, honestly, he thought the older man took his words a bit out of context and much more personally than he had intended. Pondering this, he sat back down next to Ken.

"They're getting close, aren't they?" he asked, gesturing towards the stairs.

* * *

Picking the crust carefully off the sandwich in his hands, Aya looked up to see Yohji staring at him. There was something in his eyes, an intense something that Aya was at a loss to explain. Setting his sandwich down on the paper plate, he turned his full attention to the blonde, trying to figure it out.

Yohji grinned at him, gesturing to the food.

"Yohji…" He wanted to ask what made the man look that way, like he was looking for something he could never find.

"Yeah?"

"What do you want?"

"I just want you to be normal."

~tbc~

Notes: Please review. Every time this gets a new review it motivates me to keep working on it, and I promise there's more plot coming, really! Thanks everyone!


	87. Center Me

Chapter Eighty-Seven: Center Me

* * *

Normal.

The word echoed in Aya's head. He fell asleep thinking it was impossible and woke up determined to come as close as he could. As he lay on Yohji's chest, listening to the man's steady heartbeat through the thin white fabric of his t-shirt, Aya started to make plans.

* * *

"Getting up?" Yohji slurred, having learned to ask without completely waking up.

"Yes," Aya answered him as he slipped out of the bed.

"Practice?"

"Yes."

"'Kay," he answered, rolling over to cuddle into his pillow, "Eat breakfast."

* * *

He could do this.

Aya had killed a man; he could handle breakfast.

But standing in the bright kitchen, he wasn't so sure.

After an hour of practice with his sword (something that seemed to gain an excessive seriousness after having completed the mission), Aya had gotten a shower, dressed quietly while Yohji slept on, and come downstairs with the intention of fixing breakfast.

That was normal.

Nodding to himself, Aya faced the empty kitchen, trying to make decisions and ignore the voice in the back of head: it was insidious, whispering over and over how Yohji would punish him if he touched the things here, if he wasn't where he should be, if he did something wrong. He forced himself to ignore it and focus on what he was going to make.

Going to the refrigerator, he hesitated, then made himself to open it. He stood, waiting instinctually for some kind of blow, his heart speeding up in anticipation. But nothing happened, and he told himself sternly to calm down. Taking a few deep breaths, he looked into the refrigerator and took stock.

Quickly he spotted the eggs and took them out. His first thought was to make a frittata. Aya-chan had loved those, with fresh tomatoes and lots of cheese.

Aya remembered late Saturday breakfasts, standing in their bright kitchen with an open cookbook while Aya-chan teased him gently about the pink apron he had borrowed from their mother. His parents had been out, constantly at some brunch or function, and he had enjoyed the time with his sister, making something she liked while slipping under his father's radar.

But there were no tomatoes. And Aya wasn't sure Yohji would like it anyway.

But he did like omelets. Doing something he knew the other would like momentarily reassured him, and Aya made quick work of getting his ingredients from the refrigerator, wishing for a few more but content with the peppers, mushrooms, onions, and cheese. He could make that work.

There were a few more tense moments where he found himself anticipating punishment, jerking around to make sure no one was watching him, having doubts that he was doing the right thing. He nearly gave it up, but he persisted, and eventually fell into the process.

Aya liked to cook. He wasn't an expert, but he had learned a lot. There was a precision in it, a skill, but also creativity; it reminded him of kendo. So he lost himself to it.

* * *

It was almost eight-thirty by the time Yohji had showered and smoked and committed himself firmly to the world of the waking. He knew there was a big order in the shop—a wedding—and though he would never openly admit he had remembered this detail, he probably needed to go rescue the white roses from Ken's clutches.

Aya wasn't in their room, so he might be helping already. Mornings varied, depending on the time Yohji managed to get up. Earlier, he might catch Aya still at practice or coming back from the shower, a little later might find him waiting quietly in the living room (or, more often than not, nervously debating what he should be doing instead), and after nine usually found him in the shop.

Yohji did not expect to find him in the kitchen, and certainly not putting breakfast on the table.

Usually surprises with Aya involved breakdowns and unnerving revelations, so this breakfast thing was pretty damn good. Of course, Yohji wasn't too sure Aya thought it was. Having put down two plates on the table, Aya had backed up against the counter and was watching him anxiously.

"Hey," Yohji greeted, "You cook?"

Aya nodded. His fingers were tugging at the hem of his navy shirt.

Yohji took a seat, noticing that he had a knife and fork set neatly beside his plate, a cup of coffee just above it. The food looked good, a cheesy omelet and hashbrowns that didn't appear as if they'd come out of the freezer.

"You gonna sit down?" he asked Aya. It took a second, but Aya moved forward and took the seat next to him, still watching, more worried than he should have been. Not that it was obvious, Yohji realized, Omi or Ken might well have read that look as emotionless detachments, but it was in his eyes, the way his hands worked the fabric, everything.

Deciding not to start their morning off with a conversation they had both heard, Yohji skipped the reassurances and went for the coffee. It was strong, the way he liked it. Casting a curious glance, he noticed Aya hadn't set a cup out for himself and wondered why the boy hadn't gone on and made tea.

By the time he had gotten halfway through the food, Yohji had decided Aya needed to cook more often. A lot more often.

"You like to cook?" he questioned, hoping to move Aya into conversation, make him feel a bit more secure, get him to actually eat something.

Aya nodded, then, "Yes, Yohji."

Wow, they were back to that. Ignore it, he told himself, not wanting to think how easy it was to slip backwards; it was too depressing, and they were having a nice morning.

"You're good at it. This is good," he gestured to his plate. There was a certain combination of spices and flavors that suggested Aya actually knew what he was doing. "Aren't you going to try it?"

Aya nodded, hesitantly, like the idea had never occurred to him, but he picked up his fork and began to eat.

* * *

"Shit!" Yohji jerked his finger back. The thorn had gotten him good, and he watched a bit of blood well up in the cut. About to stick it in his mouth, he was surprised to find Aya in the chair next to him. The boy reached for his hand, and Yohji was careful not to move too much as the redhead took it and gently pressed a paper towel to the tiny injury. After a few seconds, he lifted the paper towel, checked it, and let Yohji's hand go.

"Thanks," the blonde said, still amazed that Aya had taken that much initiative. Already he was shrinking away, ducking over his own arrangement. Yohji wasn't sure how to stop it, and he didn't want to push, but he definitely wanted Aya to hold his hand again.

* * *

"You must help me," Yohji implored, "I've been blinded by your beauty."

The elderly Hamami-san hid a laugh behind one wrinkled hand before it was taken by Yohji. He gallantly kissed it before returning it to her.

"You flatterer," she accused.

"Never! Now, what can I do for you today? Tulips?"

Her brown eyes met his for a moment before drifting over his shoulder to the table where Aya was finishing a vase of purple iris.

"I think Aya-san will help me today," Hamami smiled. "If you don't mind, Kudou-san."

Yohji thought for a second, debating whether or not to play up being hurt, but decided not to. He simply shook his head and called Aya over before leaning against the register counter to watch.

"Good afternoon, Aya-san," Hamami greeted. Her small presence made Aya look taller as he stood next to her in his green apron.

He nodded, then after a pause, greeted her in return, "Good afternoon. Can…how can I help you?"

Hamami smiled gently at him and lifted a hand to place it on his arm. Yohji flinched at the touch, but after an initial start (and a concerned look from the old woman) Aya offered her a nod and let her half-lead him towards the coolers.

Yohji watched their backs and listened.

"I'm going to a party, Aya-san," Hamami explained. Aya nodded. "My great niece is turning sixteen, and I thought it would be appropriate to bring her flowers. I need something…joyous to suit the occasion."

Aya seemed to think for a moment, then stepped away from her to pull a few purple crocus from the cooler, bringing them back for her inspection.

"Yes, those are perfect," she smiled. "Would you make me a bouquet?"

Aya went to put the flowers on his work station, coming back to the cooler for some green leaves, baby's breath, and a bit of queen ann's lace. Hamami made her way to the table as he sat down.

"Do you know what they mean?" she questioned, gesturing a quivering finger towards the crocus laying at Aya's elbow. To Yohji's surprise, the boy nodded, and, when Hamami kept looking at him, spoke.

"Youthful gladness," he said.

"And cheerfulness," she added happily, clasping her hands in front of her patterned kimono and turning to Yohji. "I'm so glad! You've finally got someone who speaks my flowers!"

Had he not heard her soft complaints about how none of them understood what she wanted—Hamami-san was very concerned about what flowers meant—Yohji wouldn't have understood that. He was more confused, though, about how Aya knew any of that to begin with. But as Hamami began to quiz him on the queen ann's lace (delicate beauty) and baby's breath (happiness, or festivity, apparently), Yohji had to admit Aya seemed well schooled. Soon, though, Hamami stumped him with a question about lisianthus.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I…I don't know."

Hamami just smiled and patted his arm, "Don't worry, it's a difficult one. I'll bring you my book, then we can have a proper conversation about it!"

Aya, looking a bit confused, just nodded as he tied off the bouquet, a beautiful mix of bright crocus and delicate white blooms.

~tbc~

Notes: Review to keep pushing Aya towards progress.


	88. Clasp Me

Notes: Thank you all for the reviews! They've encouraged me to keep the posts quick on this story, and I really appreciate the time you've all taken to respond!

* * *

Chapter Eighty-Eight: Clasp Me

* * *

Despite Yohji's misgivings, Aya was still training with Sato three days a week. So after dealing with the roses for the wedding and closing shop, the blonde hoped to get a few chores done before they set off for that. He went upstairs to start the laundry, only to find Aya standing by the bed folding what appeared to be clean underwear—the primary objective of the whole laundry-doing venture.

"Is it okay?" Aya asked quietly, not looking up as he folded another pair of boxers.

"Sure," Yohji shrugged, taking a seat beside a stack of his own clean t-shirts. He wasn't sure what was going on, but it was like someone had flipped a switch and Aya was trying as many new, helpful things as possible. "You know you don't have to, right?"

Aya nodded and kept folding. Each item was given crisp creases, done the exact same way every time. Yohji just watched, laying on the bed as Aya put away their things.

"Thank you," he said. Aya looked up, surprised, he thought.

* * *

Aya jerked his head up, slightly startled that he almost fallen asleep, again. He wasn't going to do that; it wasn't normal, to fall asleep in the car. He wasn't a child.

But he was tired. Practice with Sato had been rigorous, but more than that, the day had taken vigilant effort, constant policing in his attempt to achieve something like normality. There were a thousand questions to be dealt with at every action or inaction, the repeated suppression of his own fear, the complexity of determining (or remembering) what normal even was. It was difficult.

Yohji seemed pleased, though. Glancing sideways at the man driving the car, Aya saw that there was still a lingering smile and his face, and it firmed his own resolve to keep going.

"Hey," Yohji said, turning down the radio, "You want something to eat?"

Aya thought about it. He was hungry, but he wasn't sure he could stay awake long enough to eat. It might be normal to eat, but falling asleep in some restaurant wasn't. So he shook his head, no. Yohji lifted an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Watching the road, Aya felt himself nod off again and jerked back to consciousness.

"Let's go get drive through," the blonde suggested. "I'm starving."

* * *

Yohji couldn't help but smile as he looked at his bed, complete with a sleeping redhead. The boy had fought sleep all the way home, managing to eat some fries but nearly dropping the package when he drifted off. Yohji had been hard pressed not to laugh, but now it was a certain tender feeling he had as he pulled on a pair of worn sweatpants and took a seat next to the boy.

Aya's pajama top wasn't buttoned, and he was twisted oddly around on top of the covers, like he had been getting dressed and decided to lay down, just for a minute, and had gone out as quickly as any toddler. His wet hair was spread out around his head, and Yohji reached to smooth it down, letting his fingers linger in the red strands, slipping down one smooth cheek and down Aya's neck.

The boy shifted in his sleep, and Yohji jerked his hand away, running it through his own damp hair. Getting up, he threw his wet towel in the hamper and went to the dresser. He brushed his hair and made sure his sunglasses were on the nightstand, then went back to tuck Aya in.

Yohji folded back the covers and started to shuffle Aya underneath. The boy moaned and tried to pull away from his hands.

"Nooo," Aya groaned, pressing his face into the bed and edging away from him.

"Shh, it's just me," Yohji brushed back his hair again, the unassuming touch seeming to soothe. He reached and turned off the light before settling in next to Aya and pulling the boy close. He never completely woke during the jostling and curled up around Yohji with a quiet sigh.

The older man rested his hand on Aya's shoulder, looking at the ceiling and listening to the soft inhale and exhale of the boy's breathing. For the first time in weeks, Yohji felt great. He felt like Aya had made some real progress, the thought bolstered by each little accomplishment that had been scattered throughout their day.

It had been sudden, and Yohji had glimpsed the effort Aya put in to each little thing. And he was grateful. So he tried to be encouraging without being obvious.

As to what had precipitated the sudden change, Yohji didn't like to think it might have been the mission, but the timing seemed likely. If so, he could only hope that it had not been the act itself but rather that Aya had realized that there was no retaliation waiting at home or that Yohji really would be there for him no matter what.

Yohji smiled in the dark and pulled Aya a bit closer. The boy snuggled in, long fingers tangling in Yohji's loose pants, taking hold just below his waist.

He would be there for Aya, even if they didn't always have good days.

~tbc~

Notes: Good Yohji. Please leave a review to pet him and tell him how well he's doing!


	89. Check Me

Chapter Eighty-Nine: Check Me

* * *

"This?" Yohji questioned, holding out what he could only call 'the green stuff.'

Aya nodded, and Yohji put the green stuff in the cart.

* * *

Yohji stifled a laugh as Aya glared at him.

"Well, is it?"

"Yes," the boy answered sharply, stepping in front of the stove and halfway elbowing Yohji out of the way.

"Sorry," Yohji grinned, "but I don't think it's supposed to be green."

Aya sighed as he stirred the pot of the stove, lifted the spoon to sniff it, then added a bit more of the chopped green stuff—which, apparently, was an alternative form of basil—to the green sauce.

Leaning against the counter, Yohji couldn't stop smiling. It didn't do much for his image, he thought, to be doing it all the time, but he was just so damn pleased with Aya. All week, the boy had been doing his damndest to…well, everything. He was cleaning, working, cooking, but it wasn't the chores that made Yohji happy, it was the way Aya did them without much prompting and without such a terrible degree of anxiety. There was still a considerable amount of skittishness, but that all out fear seemed to be fading.

Now, for example, Aya was looking expectantly at him as he lifted a spoon for Yohji to sample. With an exaggerated look of trepidation, Yohji opened his mouth. The sauce was good, fresh tasting like herbs and a bit of cheese.

"It'll do," he said with a shrug, amused to see Aya glare. The look fell away though to slight anxiousness, then Aya looked away. He put the spoon in the sink and got a new one, coming back to the pot and staring hard at it.

"Hey," Yohji pushed a little at his shoulder, "I was just kidding. It's good."

Aya nodded, obviously unconvinced. Yohji was learning (albeit slowly) that the boy could also be extremely sensitive of critique, expecting worse things to follow in word of correction no matter how small.

"Can I help?" he asked.

* * *

Omi was a bit wary when Yohji announced that Aya was going to cook for them. He had noticed that the redhead had been making breakfast for Yohji, but having not experienced his cooking firsthand could only suppose that it lived up to that of other sixteen years olds (himself now being excluded from this group). Yohji said it was good, but then again, if Aya served up styrofoam and stale gravy the blonde was likely to make over it.

Omi shook his head and took his usual seat next to Ken who was examining his fork like he had never seen it before. Of course, it didn't usually appear next to his plate or on top of a napkin. Yohji seemed pleased by this development in their routine and was smiling a little over his own empty plate, looking behind Omi as Aya carried in another big bowl, this one filled with pasta. Omi turned to watch him bring yet another, smaller, bowl in; this one had something green in it, and Omi wasn't sure he wanted to eat it.

"It's good," Yohji assured, looking at Aya even as he talked to Omi. "Really."

Aya looked less sure as he sat took his own seat and folded his hands into his lap and stared at them.

"Here," Yohji took over. Picking up the bowl of pasta, he served himself liberally and then shoveled a slightly smaller portion onto Aya's plate before passing it to Ken. Never one to turn down food, Ken took it eagerly. He never paused on the green sauce, adding that too before handing it to Yohji; the blonde was sure to catch Aya's eye before putting a big spoonful onto his own pasta and Omi could only figure that the older man was trying to be encouraging.

Well, if Yohji could do it…

Omi served himself pasta and sauce as well as salad and bread. He hesitated but was pleasantly surprised with the first bite. It was good, not mac-n-cheese good, but like something served in a restaurant.

About to compliment Aya, he turned to find the boy still staring at his hands, not eating. Yohji was eating, but he was also watching Aya. Omi wasn't sure why he wasn't doing anything. It wasn't right, Aya sitting there like that. Fishing for some way to bring Aya inteya into their normal conversation, Omi decided to broach a topic he had been considering for almost a week.

"Aya-kun," he said. Purple eyes came up; the boy's face was blank. "I wanted to ask you something."

Aya nodded. Glancing to Yohji, Omi found green eyes glued to him over the edge of dark glasses, and not exactly friendly. Omi looked back to Aya.

"I was thinking, now that you're going to be staying, wouldn't you like your own room?"

"We don't have any more rooms," Yohji said, cold. This time Omi met his stare.

"I could clean out the office," he said.

"No," Yohji answered, "I—fuck, Omi, we're just getting settled! Aya—do you want your own room?"

His attention suddenly shifted to the redhead, Yohji made his inquiry. Aya looked at him, obviously unsure.

"It's no trouble to clean it out," Omi assured, "and I'm sure you'd be glad to have your room back, Yohji-kun."

There was a moment of silence; Ken stopped eating to watch the scene unfold.

"I…" Aya stopped, looking at Yohji. "I just…do you want me to?"

"I'm sure you'll be glad to have company again," Omi put in, hinting.

"What?" Yohji seemed taken aback by the suggestion, as if he didn't broadcasts his conquests on a regular basis.

"And Aya-kun deserves a room of his own," he added. It was for the best. Yohji was starting to get too attached; the two of them were even sharing the bed, and that wasn't good for anyone.

"I," Aya started again, then stopped, "do you?"

"No," Yohji replied to the half-repeated question. "I mean, if you want, but—I like you in there."

"There'd be more room," Omi added.

"I don't," Aya began, stopped, looked between them, "If I'm by myself he'll…I…I'll do whatever you want, Yohji."

This last was said with quiet resolution, like Aya was condemning himself to the separation. It was enough to make Omi wonder if he had done the wrong thing by bringing it up.

"You're not leaving," Yohji decided. After an intense stare in the boy's direction, he shoved up his shades and went back to eating his food.

Omi let the matter drop into uncomfortable silence.

~tbc~


	90. Corner Me

Chapter Ninety: Corner Me

* * *

Aya pressed his back against the cool stone, shrinking further into the shadows. Perfectly still, he listened. For a moment, there was nothing, then footsteps, at a distance but drawing closer. Two.

He swallowed hard and drew his sword from its sheath, determined not to think beyond the moves he would make. He would not think of results—no, that was weak. He knew he was going to kill them.

The footsteps paused, and for a terrible second he was sure that they were on to him, then they crossed the entrance to the alley.

Aya leapt forward, katana coming down in a graceful arc. The perfected motion was stalled as the blade connected hard against the first man's shoulder, slicing through the fabric of his expensive suit and rending the flesh beneath. He fell, his weight trying to take the sword down as well, but Aya's grasp was firm.

The second man seemed to be in shock, staring at Aya as he shook. He had no time to work it out as with one, hard thrust, the redhead buried the sword in the man's chest. He gasped, futilely lifting his hands to grab at the blade. Aya watched, horrified and grotesquely fascinated as his struggles stopped. He felt bile rise at the back of his throat as he had to kick the man to get him off the end of the sword.

But none of this showed on his face. It was perfectly blank, and though he couldn't convince himself to thank Crawford for the lesson, he was almost glad he knew how to do it. Because if they could see how awful it was for him, then the men might not have been scared at all.

* * *

"Okay?" Yohji questioned.

"Shower," Aya replied.

"Yeah, go ahead."

He watched Aya, bloodspattered and exhausted, walk down the hall away from him. It was their third mission, and Yohji was beginning to think that the distance he felt with Aya was going to be the norm after those sorts of things. It was if the boy needed some emotional room to put it behind him. Yohji understood that and was willing to back off, at least a little.

So he went outside, smoked, drank a beer (a considerably lesser amount than he would have liked to have, but what he was beginning to think was going to be his new standard). Then he went back upstairs, got his own shower, and finally headed to their room. Aya was on the bed, dressed in his gray pajamas and looking much less fierce than he had a few minutes prior. He was tired, barely awake, and it comforted Yohji to realize the redhead was waiting for him to go to sleep.

* * *

Yohji pushed his thin hip against the shop door, listening to the bells tinkle as he got inside and tried to find someone to help with his burden. Fortunately, Ken was quickly by his side, relieving him of the white paper bags and drink container. Yohji turned around to flip the closed sign while Ken spread out their questionable feast near the register. It was Friday, and they didn't have much time to eat before the afternoon rush started.

"Aya," Yohji beckoned the boy from the back of the shop. The redhead sat down the pruning shears he was using and came up to join them. Yohji handed him a container of fries and they all stood together around the counter.

"Here," the blonde shuffled the drinks, keeping the diet one for himself.

They ate in silence, knowing time was limited. As soon as Ken had finished his second burger, he brought out the order slips and started flipping through them. There were always more on Friday and Saturday as people prepared for events and evenings out.

"One of us has got to go to Chiba to deliver all those dahlias," he said.

"Are they done?" Yohji asked as he wiped his hands on a napkin.

"Yeah. Aya finished them while you were gone."

"All of them?" Yohji raised an eyebrow in the boy's direction. Aya did nothing, but Ken nodded.

"But someone's got to do the delivery at three," Ken reiterated.

It didn't take long for Yohji to figure out why that was a problem. One of them would have to go, and it would take both of the others to man the shop through the rush of girls and then more serious customers as they got out of school and work respectively. In all likelihood, Aya wouldn't be able to hide out in the greenhouse.

"Okay," Yohji said, slowly, thinking.

"I'll go?" Ken asked.

Yohji nodded, looking at Aya who, having caught on, was staring at his hands.

Assignment clarified, Ken took one of the more simple order slips and went to gather some flowers while Yohji and Aya remained near the register.

"You'll be fine," the blonde assured as he picked up the trash and put it in one of the white bags. "They're not going to hurt you."

He got a glare for that and returned it with a sigh, "Yes, I know you know that. Just...will it be okay? If it's too much we'll figure something else out."

Aya just looked at him, the glare shifting into his more confused look. It was the same expression Yohji got when he asked Aya's opinion of anything more complicated than food (and sometimes that too). It was clear he wasn't going to get an answer.

"Do your best," he said, "but if it's too bad, you tell me. Got it?"

"I'll be fine," the boy snapped, the glare returning in full force; it was getting to be a rather disturbing look.

Aya turned and went back to his flowers.

Huh. Yohji took a second to be puzzled. He'd expected the calm 'Yes, Yohji.'

For weeks, ever since that odd comment the first day the boy had come to the shop, he'd wondered what Aya was really like. He had no delusions that he was truly submissive or so terribly quiet. More often now Yohji was catching glances of a real personality, unfortunately, it seemed that Aya might turn out to have, along with a good degree of intelligence, a true redheaded temperament. Yohji expected it would cause him problems in the long run, but for the moment, he was pretty happy with this development of will and the occasional snippy comment that simultaneously made him feel proud and stupid for having any doubts in the first place.

Still, he would watch Aya carefully when the customers came in, because as much as he and Aya wanted it to be fine, sometimes it wasn't.

* * *

Calm down, Aya commanded himself. He wanted to pace, but he forced himself to go calmly to the cooler and put away the arrangement, the last of the daily orders. People would be coming soon to pick them up, and the girls would arrive sooner than that.

He wasn't scared of them. Not at all. But he was worried that he wouldn't be able to handle it.

Before, in the flood of people, he hadn't been able to cling to the present moment, the flashbacks overwhelming him. Aya would like to think they were getting better, but he was yet to get through a day without confronting the problem. Sometimes it wasn't so bad, just remembering something, even something terrible—that was okay. No one noticed that. It was when he really ceased to be with the present that bothered him; he would actually lose time, being totally transported back to…there.

He hated that. It left him shaken and unsure, and it reminded him that he could at any time be taken back. And it worried Yohji, making him look on Aya with those concerned eyes, and, worse, it made Aya crave his presence as a stay against the inevitable seizure of his person by Schuldig or Crawford or whomever might be lurking in the shadows. Aya didn't want to need him. Anyone.

But here he was, cowering in the face of young girls.

A sardonic smile threatened to pull at his lips, but he willed it away as he took a seat at the work table and laid a half dozen iris in front of him.

* * *

Yohji stood half in front of Aya, hands raised as he tried to fend off the circle of girls that gathered noisily around them.

"He's back!"

"Can you believe it? Look, Saiko!"

"I love his hair!"

"Aya, right? They call you Aya?"

"Isn't that a girl's—"

"Be nice, Ma-chan! Ooh, look—"

"Wait! He's going to say something! Shh!"

It was painfully clear to Yohji that Aya had no intention of saying anything. The boy had maneuvered quickly to get his back to the coolers, and Yohji had stepped in. Now Aya's eyes were wide in surprise, at the attention, the aggressiveness of the teenage hoard. Yohji had to admit, it was intense.

Unfortunately, it was also a daily part of the job.

"Tell them your name," Yohji whispered; it carried surprisingly far the circle of girls fell into a hush punctuated by the occasional giggle.

"Aya," the boy said, adding nothing to the bit of information.

"Fujimiya Aya," Yohji supplied, "our new florist. Please, ladies don't scare this one off!"

"Ma, Yohji-san, we haven't scared anyone off!" one girl protested.

"Ah," the blonde paused and pretended to think, "but Aya-san is very shy, and your attention overwhelms him. That's why he's been hiding in the greenhouse with his flowers."

"We didn't mean to!"

"We're sorry!"

"We'll be better, won't we?"

A chorus of 'yes's followed, and Yohji offered them an award-winning smile before nodding sagely, noting with some amusement that Aya was glaring at him for having dared suggest he had been hiding.

"Now, if you're buying flowers, stay here and talk to our resident recluse," he suggested, "and if not, come talk to me—especially if you're over eighteen."

Having drawn away a portion of the girls and in the process of stoking his ego by collecting offers of dates, Yohji kept an eye on Aya. The girls seemed to have taken his advice to heart and were keeping it down to a hush. The circle had backed off, and one at a time they approached Aya to ask for single flowers and, inevitably, to ask him some question or another.

Aya wasn't responding to these, at all. He would go, get the flower, and hand it wordlessly over. And while there was a good deal of speculation amongst the girls, Yohji got the feeling that the boy's reticence was not so much driving them away as driving them to plotting.

Soon enough, he saw the result of this initial planning as three girls approached together to ask for an actual arrangement. Two of them were actually brought to blushing when Aya looked up to listen to their order.

Yohji supposed it should be expected. Any of their group could garner a blush with some attention, himself being the most practiced and rewarded in this aspect, but it usually took a few words or at least a touch here or there. Aya was doing it with the simplicity of a look.

As he looked at the boy, it struck Yohji, not for the first time, that Aya wasn't just exotic; he was almost…beautiful. And there were fast becoming fewer reservations to this statement: the hollows of his cheeks had filled out almost completely (with no roundness of face, but an appealing set of almost feminine angles), his striking eyes were no longer constantly shadowed by dark circles, his hands not so bone-thin. He was slight, but picking up muscle, quiet, but no longer with that obviously scared tremble about him. Yohji had no doubts that the boy was simply getting better at hiding some of his problems now that he had made the most basic recovery, but the picture from the outside was shockingly attractive.

And the girls were after him.

Yohji would have been worried, was, at the start, but Aya was dealing with them in a quiet way that (not given the information the blonde had) read as cold efficiency.

* * *

Aya went to the cooler, opened the door, and looked at the small bucket of roses. He took a deep breath and told himself again that all he had to do was get the flowers.

He was not going to shake. He was not going to hide. He was not going to think about anything else except getting those flowers.

He was going to be normal about the whole thing.

Taking out a single pink rose, he brought it back to the table and carefully snipped the stem and placed on a small capsule of water before wrapping it in a bit of green. He glanced, just to check his trajectory, at the waiting girl. She was looking expectantly at him, and Aya was quick to look back down.

He took another breath and reminded himself what Yohji had said. He didn't have to let anyone but Yohji touch him. He didn't have to let these people do anything to him. Aya clung to this knowledge as he pressed on with his task, glancing up often to make sure the blonde was still there.

~tbc~


	91. Catch Me

Notes: Some actual plot is in the works, hopefully in the next three or four chapters! Thanks for reading (and especially reviewing)!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-One: Catch Me

* * *

Aya did not like some of the customers. He would never like them. He knew this immediately.

The men were the worst. Flurried and unsure, they didn't know what they wanted, and their palpable nervousness made Aya nervous in return. The men who came in during the morning were bad enough, but these late-comers who had obligations and no clue what they needed, ate at his nerves.

He wasn't good at talking with Yohji, let alone these strangers. He didn't want to talk to them, and since Yohji had not told him he should, Aya decided that he would do so only at a minimum.

The first two male customers (without pre-orders, which, in his brief experience, they never thought of), he attempted to glean what they wanted, only to be frustrated and asking them to point, please, to the cooler, where they were even more overwhelmed. Aya had never been a person of patience, and in the back of his mind, he was surprised to feel this trait reemerge; it was increasingly odd to feel like a person. But his surprise was not helping the situation.

By the third, confused customer, Aya figured out a way to expedite the situation. The man said he didn't know what he wanted; Aya said simply, "Roses?"

The man nodded, and, not asking for more details, Aya constructed a bouquet of a half-dozen red roses. The man seemed pleased, and so Aya decided that all such customers could be handled in that way. Having this plan helped.

But the ladies were another thing entirely. They confused him.

There were a few younger women who came in with the rush of customers, but most of these were thankfully drawn away by Yohji, leaving Aya to tend to the few elderly matrons. It was hard to imagine them as a threat when they look so small or so rotund, with their wrinkled faces and soft, polite words.

Aya wouldn't say he liked them—not that he intended to say anything about any of it—but he vastly preferred them to the other customers.

Upon realizing this, he was once against surprised to find that he had preferences about that kind of thing. Who was he to preference anything? He should be grateful—was—that he wasn't chained to a wall somewhere getting—no, no, he wasn't going to do that.

But it was too late.

* * *

_His face was pressed against the wall, the rough stone scraping at his temple. His arms strained, his hands bound over his head, his naked body half-suspended against the cold wall._

_It was dark._

_His body ached, and it was hard to breath. He had done something, but his fogged brain couldn't remember what it was, and Aya didn't particularly care. He couldn't care, not when he chest hurt so badly, or when he tasted blood when he coughed. Crawford had broken something, and Aya waffled between hoping it wasn't too serious and hoping it was._

_Other parts hurt too, and he tried not to think about it._

_He just wanted to be left alone there, in the dark, with no one looking at him or hitting him or fucking him._

_Aya coughed, the movement wracking his chest and sending another bit of blood into his mouth. He spit it out and tried to breathe._

_The door opened, and Aya closed his eyes. He didn't want to know who or why. _

_/You aren't happy to see me?/_

_Schuldig._

_/Yes, dearest. What's happened to my pretty little kätzchen now?/_

_Shut up, Aya thought it, but he never knew if Schuldig heard him or not. The German said something, but Aya's mind was consumed in revulsion as those soft hands ran over his shoulders and down his back._

"_Do something for me?" Schuldig asked, breath warm at Aya's ear and the cloth of his pants rough against naked thighs. He started to shake and felt Schuldig laugh, a deep chuckle that seemed to run through his bones. "Don't worry, it's simple."_

_The hands were running back up, feeling his ribs, settling there as Schuldig leaned even closer, resting some of his weight against Aya and pressing the boy into the wall. It was even harder to breathe._

"_Say my name, kätzchen."_

_A triviality ,one of Schuldig's favorite kinds of game. Aya hated it._

"_No," the redhead growled at him, the sound too quiet as he fought for air. _

_Then there was pain, bright, as Schuldig grabbed roughly at his side, pushing the broken rib further inward. Aya gasped, coughed, struggled for air._

"_Just once."_

"_No," he said again. He didn't care if it hurt, didn't care if the man killed him. _

"_I'm going to see your sister tomorrow. Play with me, and I'll take her a message. Keep this up…well, I have other games."_

_Sharp teeth bit into his earlobe, and Aya found he didn't have the strength to pull away. He was helpless._

"_Schuldig," he conceded, too easily, the terrible name spilling from his lips, accented oddly and in a voice that was broken. _

"_There now, not so hard, kätzchen. Now, scream it…"_

* * *

"Aya!" someone was whispering in an urgent tone.

There was a hand around Aya's upper arm, leading, half-dragging him through the back door and into another room. He couldn't think, and he jerked away instinctually from the touch. He didn't want to go back there; he didn't want to be used and beaten and—

"Stop that!" Yohji demanded.

Yohji.

Reality suddenly broke through, and Aya found himself in the back storage room surrounded by flowers and pots and tools. He stood, shaking, and Yohji looked at him expectantly.

He'd done it again.

* * *

Yohji had seen it about to happen, though why Aya freaked out while tending to Kirai-san (an elderly lady asking for violets) and not the many other customers he had adeptly handled, the blonde didn't have a clue. Thankfully, Aya hadn't done anything to call attention to himself; it was, rather, just that blankness of eyes that clued Yohji in to what was happening.

Disengaging himself quickly from the few lingering girls, he had slipped to Aya's side, made some flimsy excuse, and taken hold on the boy's arm. He had to get Aya out of there.

Forgetting the unmanned shop, Yohji had drug a resistant Aya to the back, frustrated when the boy tried to pull away.

"Stop that!" he said, knowing Aya wasn't really with him.

Then, suddenly, the boy all but collapsed. Only Yohji's arm, slipped quickly and awkwardly around his thin waist, kept him from crumbling to the ground. Half dragging the redhead, Yohji made it to the worn-out couch and set him down on it, kneeling quickly in front of him and trying to get Aya to look up. The boy stared resolutely at his lap, his hands clenched.

"Aya?"

"I'm sorry, Yohji."

"It's alright," he said, keeping his voice quiet. "Are you okay?"

Aya nodded, still not looking at him.

"You sure?" The boy's posture was not reading 'okay.'

Aya nodded again, and Yohji sighed. He rested his hand lightly on Aya's knee, trying to comfort, but they boy only shuddered at the touch, and Yohji quickly removed his hand. At a loss of what else to do, he told Aya he was going back to the shop.

* * *

"No one took anything!" Yohji defended, ignoring Omi's hard look as he pushed past the boy and into the living room. But Omi followed.

"You can't just leave the shop, Yohji-kun," he said, again. Yohji rolled his eyes and dropped onto the sofa; he had more important things to worry about.

Like what was going on with Aya. The boy hadn't come back to the shop, and when Yohji had inevitably gone to find him, he had been out in the greenhouse. Rather than fiddling with his plants, the redhead had been in the back, hunkered down by some clutter piled there, staring silently at the floor while the cat stood watch beside him. When Yohji came near, it hissed at him, but Aya never looked up.

The blonde had spent a few minutes questioning, but Aya told him nothing was wrong. Yohji didn't believe that for a second, but he got Aya to come inside and sit down for dinner. Not that he ate much of anything. Afterwards, they had sat together on the couch for over an hour, Aya completely still and silent, until the boy asked Yohji quietly if he could go and practice.

Three hours later, he was still at it. Yohji had been prepared to go get him, again, when he had been accosted by Omi who had heard from Ken that Yohji happened to have left the shop for ten minutes earlier in the day.

"Well?" Omi questioned. Having no idea of what had preceded this comment, Yohji just shrugged and pushed his sunglasses further up on his face.

* * *

"That's enough," Yohji said from the doorway, sick of watching Aya drive himself towards exhaustion. It was quickly becoming clear that the boy was using his sword practice as a means of self-punishment, and though Yohji hadn't quite figured out why or for what, he wasn't going to stand and watch while Aya beat himself up.

The sword was lowered, purple eyes following its end as it fell towards the floor. Silently he put it away and came to stand by Yohji.

"What's the matter, Aya?"

"Nothing."

* * *

Yes. No. He should—wait—

Aya stopped pacing, reaching up to tug harshly on one of his eartails as he tried to get his thoughts in order. Yohji would come back soon, and he had to figure out what to do.

He was sure the man would be—was—mad at him for his lapse in the shop. And he knew that he couldn't promise it wouldn't happen again, because it would, and the knowledge of that was awful in itself. Worse, Aya wasn't sure he could be normal at all. He couldn't even act like he was.

And Yohji would be angry. This surety mixed and turned with the odd feelings he was experiencing. He didn't think Yohji would send him back, but he didn't want to disappoint the other, not after Yohji had been so pleased with him. He didn't want the man to yell at him, and after everything else he had experienced, Aya couldn't figure out why the idea of it bothered him so much except that Yohji was the first person in a long time not to do it, to talk to Aya in a way that didn't make him feel so terrible. But he didn't know what to do to keep it that way.

Looking around their bedroom anxiously, he finally settled himself on the floor and ducked his head. It helped, didn't it? That was what Schuldig had always wanted him to do. But Yohji didn't like it, but that was when Aya had been doing well. Maybe now that's what he would want. Maybe Yohji wouldn't yell at him that way.

Aya pulled on his hair again, managing to settle his hands in his lap just as the door opened.

* * *

What the fucking hell?

Yohji took a deep breath and shut the door. It slammed against the frame, and Aya jerked in response. The blonde felt a laugh rise in his throat and pushed it forcibly down. It wasn't funny.

Pointedly avoiding Aya, who, apparently, had decided to forget every damn thing they had talked about in the last month and was currently kneeling on the damn floor, Yohji went to the window and cracked it open. He stood there smoking, wondering if he should say anything about how stupid this was or if he should just let Aya sit there until he came to the realization on his own.

What could he say? He tried to calm down enough to figure it out, but he couldn't get a handle on the anger that flared up at this. How could Aya do that? How could he just…Yohji felt betrayed, and he hated it.

He flicked the cigarette butt out the window, and stepped towards the boy, but he was too mad. It was so fucking stupid! He decided he couldn't handle this without going off.

He left.

* * *

It was well after midnight, and Yohji wasn't really watching the television. He left it on for the noise, and it was the only light, casting a blue, shifting glow over the otherwise dark living room.

He had drank a little, not too much and not too recently, trying to sort through exactly what the redhead was thinking. It was a perverse and difficult game.

Suddenly, with enough stealth that he was half startled, Aya appeared at his side, standing awkwardly beside the couch and staring at the carpet. He worried his hands, long fingers sliding along one wrist then the other. Grabbing both those hands—nearly cool to the touch—Yohji pulled the boy down. It was an impulse, instinct almost, that made him tug Aya into his lap.

The boy went stiff at the proximity, but Yohji ignored it, carefully arranging them so that Aya sat across his lap, long legs half-bent over his own knees and the boy's back against the arm of the couch. He slung his own arm over Aya's shoulders and pulled him close, waiting patiently until Aya got the hint and rested his head on Yohji's shoulder.

That was better.

As Aya slowly relaxed, Yohji felt some alleviation of the tension that had been afflicting him since he'd found Aya upstairs.

"I'm sorry, Yohji," the boy whispered, one of his busy hands now fingering the soft cloth of Yohji's shirt.

"I don't even know what you're sorry for," Yohji admitted, keeping his voice quiet, determined not to startle or scare.

"Today. I…I can't help it."

It sounded like Aya was condemning himself.

"What?"

"When…I, the…"

Yohji waited; Aya took a long breath and tried again.

"When I think about…them…I can't stop it."

The flashbacks. Finally on board with what was bothering the young man, Yohji was instantly concerned with the level of worry Aya had over something that had been happening from the beginning. It wasn't the redhead's fault, but it sounded like he was more than ready to take the blame.

"You can't help that," Yohji said seriously, "Why would I be mad about that?"

Aya just shook his head, but Yohji persisted.

"Aya, when have I ever been upset with you over being scared?"

There wasn't even a rebuke about Aya's not being scared, nothing but that slow shaking of his head.

"Listen to me," Yohji demanded, shifting them around until Aya was sitting across his lap and facing him. The boy was light enough that the movement was easy, and he offered no resistance. "Look at me. I'm not mad at you."

He thought it best to leave out the fact that he had been thoroughly pissed off by Aya's refusal to just talk to him earlier. He didn't trust the boy's ability to sort out the finer points of his emotions.

"Why are you so upset about this?"

For a long time Aya didn't answer, just looked at him. Finally, "Because you wanted it."

"What?"

"Me…to be…to be normal." Purple eyes dropped again, staring at Yohji's chest. "And I'm not."

~tbc~


	92. Face Me

Notes: A short chapter this time, but maybe something important happens…

* * *

Chapter Ninety-two: Face Me

* * *

"And I'm not."

Yohji could only stare at him, mind busy trying to recall what he had said and in what context. It didn't take him long to dredge up the odd conversation, one of many he'd had with the boy. Taking a deep breath, he reached to tip up Aya's chin and bring reluctant amethyst eyes up to meet his own.

"I want that for you, Aya, not for me," he said softly.

It was surprising (though it shouldn't have been at all) how much weight the boy put on Yohji's words, and the blonde had tossed those out carelessly enough. He had never thought that night that Aya would act so dramatically on the one request he had inadvertently made. It came into focus, though, all the improvements the other had made now shadowed by what was an obvious attempt to please and appease Yohji.

Something in that hurt. Yohji supposed it was the fact that he had thought Aya was making real progress. In a way it was, but it wasn't the same. And, he had to be more careful.

"You've been doing great," he continued, brushing back Aya's ragged bangs, "really great. But, fuck Aya, I thought you understood."

"I'm sorry, Yohji."

"Stop that," he requested, snagging Aya's right hand away when short fingernails began to run over the other wrist. "Don't be sorry—you, Aya, you're doing good. No one expects you to be perfect, not after—"

Shit. That wasn't the right thing to say. Yohji felt the tension increase in Aya's body and watched those strange eyes flee again. With a sigh, he took another route.

"You're not a…you don't belong to anybody, Aya. Not me, not anybody else. You do what you want to do, and when you're worried, talk to me, okay? Then we don't have to go through this."

Nothing.

"Aya? Okay?"

A nod, unsure at best. Releasing the hand he had taken prisoner, Yohji took gentle hold of Aya's face and tipped it up. It shocked him, the worry in those eye and, more than that, a kind of longing. He didn't think about it, made no conscious decision, but he did it just the same; leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Aya's, a brief, warm touch.

The boy was perfectly still, and when Yohji pulled back, his eyes were closed.

~tbc~

Notes: Reviews keep the boys from running away from their feelings! Rope works too, I guess…


	93. Fear Me

Notes: Sorry for the delay. I promise I wasn't torturing you all on purpose (though I do like that kind of thing), I wrote this chapter three separate times. But, here it is at last for your perusal and subsequent critique. Thanks again to everyone who's reading, and especially to those who leave reviews—you guys are the best, and this long chapter is dedicated to you, because without the encouragement, I doubt it would have gotten done!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-three: Fear Me

* * *

Omi leveled his crossbow, waiting for a clear shot as he perched on the thin, metal walkway above the warehouse floor. Ken was below and to his right, about to gut a gang member who had just been relieved of his weapon. Yohji, not far from Ken, had another trussed up, strands of wire doubled over a metal pipe as he levered the large man off the floor.

It was Aya who was engaged with the target. Two other large men, however, were complicating things by trying to kill the redhead before he got his hands on the trembling leader who was shakily holding a gun. Omi hoped he would back away, but he remained close, and the archer couldn't get a clear shot for fear of hitting Aya.

But the boy was holding his own. More than that, Omi realized, he was keeping one man between him and the gun as he fought off their weapons—a broken piece of wood and a rather wicked-looking switchblade. There was a flurry of movement, and Omi watched as Aya turned in a swish of black leather. The man with the club made a strangled gasp and blood sprayed from his slashed neck. But the other was too close, and the switchblade slashed across Aya's upper arm. He didn't seem to notice, turning again and bringing his sword down across the man's chest, severing a deep line. The man gasped, and the sword came down again; he fell.

The target was backing away, gun still impotently raised against Aya. For a second it looked like he might pull the trigger, but Abyssinian never flinched.

A dull thunk. The arrow flew from Omi's crossbow, burying itself deep in the target's chest. The gun clattered to the floor, and the man clutched at the shaft protruding from his reddening shirt. Aya stepped in and, with one forceful swing, nearly decapitated him.

"Target's down," Omi spoke over the comm. "Clear?"

"Clear," Yohji repeated.

"Clear," Aya echoed.

"Rendezvous in five."

* * *

They met between the warehouse and the next, in an alley cluttered with empty and broken crates. The other three were waiting for him. Ken had a white cloth pressed to his forehead and Aya had one arm across his chest, hand over the wound he had received. Yohji was hovering, but the redhead edged away from his raised hand.

"Okay?" Omi questioned.

"Just a cut," Ken answered, lifting away the cloth. Omi couldn't see anything in the dim light.

"Abyssinian?" he questioned. The boy nodded. "Let's go."

* * *

They shuffled into the kitchen and, despite silent protests on both their parts, Aya and Ken were deposited at the table. While Omi went upstairs for the big med kit, Yohji began to tug at the buckles of the redhead's coat. He had been worried, unable to get rid of his guy quick enough to help Aya back there.

The boy tried to pull away, but Yohji insisted, working the dark coat off his shoulders; it pulled in one spot, but it was only Yohji who winced as the drying blood pulled free. Aya was left in his sleeveless black top, the cut darkly visible, a horizontal gash across his pale bicep. The boy didn't respond as Yohji prodded it.

Omi came back and opened the kit on the table, taking out several alcohol pads and handing a few of them to Yohji. Then he set about getting Ken cleaned up. The brunette was used to the process and shucked off his gloves so he could hold his hair out of the way.

"I don't think it'll need stitches, Ken-kun. Hold still," Omi warmed just before he swiped across it with the alcohol pad. Ken frowned but didn't say anything

Yohji pulled out another chair and settled close to Aya who had been sitting with his eyes closed and looked ready to sleep right there at the table. Opening one alcohol pad, the blonde took the boy's thin arm in one hand and began to dab at the cut with the other. It wasn't too deep, but it had to hurt. Yohji was as gentle as he could be, cleaning out the wound. It wouldn't need stitches, either, so he just wrapped it loosely, just enough to hold until Aya had gotten out of the shower. When he was finished, he looked up at Aya who was staring at the table, completely ignoring him.

Yohji wasn't sure if that was an improvement.

He was about to ask if the redhead wanted to get a shower when Ken escaped Omi's clutches and declared that he was injured and therefore got the first one. Rolling his eyes, Omi packed up the kit and followed, deciding that he was next and wasn't going to settle for cold water after skulking on the catwalk. Aya and Yohji were left in the quiet kitchen.

The timing could have been better, but, seeing as how the universe rarely cooperated with his wishes, Yohji wasn't terribly surprised with this new development. They needed to talk, anyway. He'd put it off all day long, increasingly aware of the growing tension between them.

It was his fault. Of course it was. When was Kudou Yohji not to blame for some serious fuck up?

He hadn't meant to kiss Aya. Well, not right then. He had to admit, to himself at least, that a certain thought had been lurking a little closer to his consciousness than he liked, a thought that he definitely wanted to kiss Aya and not stop there. It wasn't that wave of lust that had almost got the better of him a few weeks before. Yohji was used to that; he knew how to deal with that. He could look at Aya's constantly scratched wrists, the impression of ribs under his t-shirt, the wary look in purple eyes when someone got too close—that put the lust to a stop.

But this other thing. The thing that whispered that he wanted to hold the redhead, to comfort him, to kiss him, yes, but to keep him safe. Yohji wasn't sure he liked wanting that, but he wanted it nonetheless.

He wanted Aya, scarred, scared, unstable Aya.

He was seriously screwed, and not in any good kind of way.

There were a few problems, several problems, a whole freaking herd of problems. Aya was a trauma victim. He hadn't had enough time to heal. Yohji wasn't sure where they stood with the whole I-don't-own-you thing, rehashed as it was. Aya was undoubtedly cautious of any intimacy beyond a handshake, and he couldn't manage a decent conversation to save his life. And he was young! Gods, he was still a freaking kid. Yohji had an over-eighteen policy, after all, but it was different with Aya.

It was all different with Aya.

He ought to be scared of it. Yohji didn't exactly have a great track record in the case of—these types of feelings. But, in lieu of fear, he felt only hesitant anticipation. He had spent a good portion of the night examining it and, realizing that having not been deterred by either logic or Aya's rather antisocial interactions, this feeling was not likely to pass over. He was stuck with it, so the only thing to do was grab a beer and strike a path forward. With caution. A hell of a lot of caution.

Though his own mind had thus been made up at some early hour of the morning, Yohji realized he was in the dark as to what Aya was thinking. The boy had been less than forthcoming on that subject.

The night before he had slipped out of Yohji's arms before the blonde could even think to apologize. Aya had regarded him, for just a second, with disbelief, then walked away. Yohji had followed, but neither had broken the silence as they got ready for bed. Unsure if he was still allowed to do so, Yohji had refrained from pulling Aya close to him to sleep, and so they had gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

Morning, however, had found Aya pressed close to his side. Yohji didn't know if it was an accident or if Aya had moved there of his own conscious volition. He'd been given little time to think about that since the redhead woke up. Again Aya regarded him, but Yohji had a hard time making out the expression. The redhead had slid from their bed and mumbled something about a shower.

All day Yohji had been the target of those long glances. Shadowed expressions that only grew more confused as the day went on. Most of the time Aya looked when he thought Yohji wouldn't notice, but the eyes would linger just a moment too long, and he would be caught. Occasionally their eyes would lock, Yohji would catch a hint of fear, and then Aya would look away.

He wasn't the least bit sure of what Aya was thinking.

* * *

Aya wanted to go to sleep. He was too tired to sit in the kitchen and talk to Yohji, but it wasn't his choice, was it?

He hadn't slept well the night before, thoughts rather than nightmares keeping him awake in the dark as he tried to piece out Yohji's actions.

The man had kissed him!

Aya wasn't stupid. He knew what a kiss was, what it meant. Or he used to.

At first, Aya was shocked at the affront. Hadn't Yohji said he wouldn't do that, that he didn't want that?

For a terrible minute, Aya thought it had all been a lie. Sitting there on Yohji's lap, he waited for the blonde to push him down, to keep kissing him, to strip off his clothes and hurt him.

He remembered Crawford and the forceful way his slippery tongue invaded Aya's mouth, the rough way his own lips were forced too far open, the thumb at the corner that tugged on sensitive skin. He remembered the choking feeling and the inability to breathe, the sick way saliva made its way down his chin and that his hands were tied so he couldn't wipe it away. Then worse things. Crawford called him dirty, said he liked it, but Aya didn't like it.

Yohji's kiss hadn't been like that. Only this gave Aya the strength to get up, and he felt a wash of surprise and relief as Yohji let him go; it was tempered, true, by a great deal of reservation. Was Yohji toying with him? If he turned, would the blonde grab him from behind? Was he just waiting to get to the bedroom so no one else would see him hurt Aya?

It had been a tremulous faith alone that got him in bed with the other. Yohji staid on his side, and Aya was thankful. He wasn't sure he could let Yohji touch him without screaming, not right then. He didn't want to seem weak, so he hurried under the covers so the other wouldn't see him shaking.

Yohji hadn't touched him, and after he calmed down a little, Aya had tried to figure out what the blonde was thinking.

That kiss, it had been…something. Not nice. No. Aya did not want to be kissed.

An old memory shook loose.

He remembered Kana.

* * *

_She was Aya-chan's friend, a little girl with long, dark hair and huge eyes, always smiling. She walked home with them sometimes, spending time in his sister's room giggling over things only girls understood. She had stayed a few hours and was leaving._

_They all stood together, Ran having caught them by accident as he went to the kitchen to get a drink before going back to his studies. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, wondering why both girls were looking at him. He knew he looked odd, but those two ought to be used to it._

_Suddenly, Kana rushed over to him. Ran had been surprised by the proximity, and, without warning, Kana had risen to her toes and kissed him right on the lips._

_Then she was gone, and Aya-chan was giggling like mad as they stood in the living room._

_Ran wiped his mouth and asked, not too nicely, "Why did she do that?"_

"_She likes you," Aya-chan explained, like he had just acquired the IQ of a rock. A very dull rock._

"_Why?"_

"_She likes you," the girl repeated._

_He sighed, continuing on his way to the kitchen as she followed. _

"_Why does she like me?"_

_Aya-chan tilted her head and considered him, "I don't know, brother, but she does. She like likes you."_

* * *

Aya did not think Yohji like liked him, but the kiss had been like that one.

What was the point? What did Yohji want?

All day he had debated this, on edge, waiting for Yohji to order him to do something he didn't want to do. But the blonde didn't even talk to him. And that was bad too. Had Aya done something wrong? Had Yohji had certain expectations when he kissed him? Was he supposed to follow those rules, to touch Yohji, to lay still and let the older man continue? He probably shouldn't have gotten up, but if he had sat there, Aya wouldn't have been able to take it. It didn't matter if Yohji was going to be gentle with him; if he was going to do that, then it only made it worse.

No, Aya told himself for what had to be the hundredth time that day, Yohji didn't want that.

Then why the kiss?

He could only sit and wait, watch cautiously, and prepare himself for whatever happened.

* * *

"You know what?" Yohji asked, scooting his chair a bit closer to Aya's, watching the boy tense. "I think we need a beer."

He felt Aya watching him as got up and took two cans from the refrigerator. He sat again, opened both, and pushed one towards the boy. He expected denial, resistance, but Aya only took the can and, after a small sip that didn't seem to please him, held it between his hands and stared at it.

"Are you mad at me?" Yohji asked him.

No, he shook his head.

"You've been quiet today."

"You didn't," Aya stopped, shut his mouth, and stared harder at the can in his hands.

"What?" Yohji asked gently. He wasn't going to run into this hyped up. He was going to take it slow and careful, for as long as he could at least. "Go on."

Aya hesitated, took a drink, set it down again, then, "You didn't talk to me."

"Ah," Yohji agreed. "You're right. Know why?"

Aya seemed to be thinking about that. Yohji let him while he finished off his beer, and finally Aya ventured an answer.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked quietly, little more than a whisper and so uncertain that it tugged at Yohji's heart.

"No, I'm not mad."

Aya took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the action.

"I wasn't sure how you would take it. Last night. The kiss."

There, he'd said it. They'd avoided it all day, and now he'd tossed it out in the open to be had out one way or another. Aya flinched at the word, took another drink. Yohji watched him silently fumble for words, opening his mouth only to close it again, keeping his head bent and eyes away from the other's inspection.

"How _did_ you take it, Aya?"

"What?" he whispered, still bent over his lap and the can held there.

"The kiss. Last night," he reiterated, trying not to sound condescending but starting to get frustrated. "Are you…okay with it?"

"Okay?" Aya repeated quietly, a question. Yohji let it hang for a moment, hoping to get something more, but nothing happened.

"Aya, shit, look at me a minute," he requested. He reached over and took the beer can out of a pair of trembling hands. Why was Aya shaking now? Hadn't he just taken down three armed guys? What made Yohji scary? "Look, here."

Obediently, Aya looked. He didn't so much straighten up to meet Yohji eyes as peek out from underneath his own bangs.

"Don't be scared," Yohji tried.

Now Aya did straighten up, back becoming rigid, but the eyes fled, "I'm not scared of you."

"Oh?" Yohji returned in a tone that clearly implied he thought Aya was full of shit. "Then why don't you look at me when you say that?"

Aya did, "I'm not scared of you."

Yohji still thought it was a lie, but he didn't say that. Instead, he leaned forward and chastely kissed those trembling lips. He felt Aya's gasp, just before the boy jerked back in his seat.

"Nothing to be scared of," Yohji smiled, thrilled by the fact that he'd gotten away with that again.

Some of that thrill was tempered, because Aya didn't look so good. Nervous. Shaky. Paler than he had any right to be. And damned if that didn't make Yohji want him more. He tried to shake off the feeling, but it persisted.

What was Aya thinking? That he would want more, probably, that he would take it. No, he wouldn't. But he wasn't giving this up either.

"Just a kiss," he promised, though his mind was already tending towards what else it might be. Nothing, he reminded it, nothing else for now. "I like you, Aya."

"Like me?" the boy repeated, a hand coming up to clench in his hair. It shouldn't be that bad.

"Yeah. I'm not gonna hurt you or…or make you do… anything you don't want to do. The kiss…it's just that I like you," he tried to explain. His hand fell to Aya's knee, but the boy shuddered and Yohji pulled it back.

"You like me?" Aya asked, like it was the strangest thing he'd ever heard.

"Yes."

"Like like?" he asked.

Yohji grinned at the elementary way of putting it, thinking of little girls and notes and something far behind them.

"Yeah, something like that."

Aya stared at him. Thin fingers worked in his hair, twisting in the strands, catching and tugging as his eyes bored into Yohji's. Then, in a tone that was so laden with confusion and despair it could express no more than a single word:

"Why?"

~tbc~


	94. Floor Me

Chapter Ninety-four: Floor Me

* * *

"Why?"

"Because I do," Yohji said earnestly. There were a hundred things he might have said, that Aya was beautiful and sad, tragic and so damn mysterious, but he didn't, letting the feeling rest on its own, inscrutable merits.

Aya was silent for a long time, just staring at him, then, "You don't even know me."

"I know enough," Yohji returned.

"You don't!" Aya suddenly yelled at him. The boy was on his feet in an instant, shaking, but whether from fear or rage Yohji wasn't sure.

"Aya—"

"Stop," Aya told him as the blonde stood. His breathing was becoming erratic, and any hopes of a quiet conversation went out the damn window. But Yohji had expected this, hadn't he?

"Aya, listen—"

"You listen! I…you can't…if…if you feel that way," he spat out the words even as he backed up protectively against the counter, "it's because you want me, not because you like me."

"I—"

"Just do it, Yohji! Don't sit here and try to talk nice when you're just going to do it anyway! I…this…"

"Aya—"

"I'm sorry, Yohji. I can't just—"

"Let me talk, damnit!"

Aya stopped trying to cut him off, looking at him with eyes that were scared and almost wild. His hand had fallen from his hair and now it gripped the collar around his neck, tugging like it was choking him.

"Aya," Yohji started again, taking a tentative step towards the boy, reaching out a hand as if to touch a temperamental house pet. "You've got to calm down, princess."

He'd hoped to lighten the mood, but it didn't even merit a glare. Slowly, carefully, he approached, getting close and putting his hand on top of Aya's. He gently pried the trembling appendage from around the collar and held on to it.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said again.

"He said that too, before," Aya said quietly, just before his eyes dropped away, looking at Yohji's chest rather than meeting his stare. Yohji didn't know who the he was, but he didn't like Aya comparing them.

"I'm not him. And, look here," he tipped up Aya's chin, letting two fingers rest under it in order to keep his eyes up, "I'm not going to hurt you. And I'm not going to force you to do anything. Do you understand that?"

Aya just stared at him. Yohji let his hands fall away and sighed.

"You don't, do you? Even after all this time. What can I do to make you understand?"

He reached to touch Aya's hair, smoothing down the strands.

"It's your choice, Aya. I want this," he laughed a bit, under his breath, "Gods, I want this, but I'm not going to force you. It's your call. So, are you going to run away scared, or are you going to trust me?"

For a moment, Yohji thought he had pressed to far, manipulated too much. There was tug of guilt as he watched confusion war with fear in violet eyes.

Then Aya moved. Two shaking hands came up, hesitated, then lit on Yohji's shoulders. He didn't move, scarcely breathed in fear of scaring them away like flighty birds. Aya was shaking all over now, but he edged away from the counter, even closer to Yohji, only a hair's breadth between them.

"I'm not scared of you," he whispered.

Soft lips touched his, and it took Yohji a second to realize Aya had kissed him. Before he could even process the idea, the boy was drawing away. It took every bit of his willpower not to grab him and kiss him thoroughly, but that would only harm his cause. Yohji practically yelled this at himself, demanding he stay still and prove that he wasn't going to push it. He was silent, still, as Aya slipped around him and disappeared. But he couldn't stop himself from smiling.

~tbc~


	95. Find Me

Notes: 500 reviews! You all are so wonderful. I've read each and every comment you've been kind enough to leave, and I can honestly say you readers are the reason this fic keeps going. You're all so encouraging, and I wish I could give you all something in return, preferably something delightfully evil, but the timing's not quite right for a lemon. However, I've managed to save a few warm and fuzzies from the ravenous slug, so I've tossed them in here to celebrate. Thank you!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-Five: Find Me

* * *

"Are you sure?" Yohji questioned. Leaning against the wall, he looked over Omi's shoulder.

Omi clicked a few more times at the keyboard and nodded.

"I've done the search three times, Yohji-kun. There's no one that even resembles her description, at least, not anyone in coma."

"You check just the hospitals?"

"Hospitals. Institutions. Even assisted care facilities," Omi replied. "I didn't find anything."

Yohji sighed, then, at Omi's dejected expression, "You did your best, kid."

"I'll keep trying, but…I don't know how we're going to find her. I'm not sure she's still in Japan. Are you going to tell Aya-kun?"

Yohji thought about it for a moment. "No. Not yet. Keeping looking, Omi."

* * *

"You gonna cook dinner for me tonight?" Yohji asked as he dropped into the chair next to Aya's.

The redhead looked up from an arrangement of white carnations, instantly tense.

"I…"

Yohji waited, shifting back in his seat to give the boy more room.

"I could…make stir fry, maybe?"

"Sounds great," Yohji smiled, happy with the barest hints of conversation he could goad Aya into. Even now Aya was looking hesitantly at him, still needing to check his reactions to any suggestion he might make.

Assured he wasn't upset, Aya went back to his arrangement, gently coaxing the carnations to sit right within the transparent, blue vase.

"Ken and Omi are going to see a movie, so it'll just be us."

There was the barest nod of Aya's head, but Yohji could see the increasing tension in the shoulders. He suppressed a sigh.

"We could watch a movie here. Or play a game or something. You like games, Aya?"

This was something else he was starting to do, putting forth little questions on a regular basis. Aya, unfortunately, was a little less than forthcoming with his answers.

"I…"

It was those 'I' statements that really got him.

"You?" Yohji encouraged gently.

"Yes. Sometimes. When…sometimes."

"Good."

And with that he left, not acknowledging the tension. After the kiss incident two days ago, Aya was constantly on guard, like Yohji would grab in at any instant. The blonde had known better than to push it, giving Aya time and space and waiting for the perfect, or at least one rather acceptable, moment to press his suite.

* * *

"Okay," Yohji conceded, leaning back against the couch, "you've officially kicked my ass."

Was that the barest hint of a smile? He couldn't tell as it was too soon eclipsed by a worried look as Aya searched his expression for reprimand. Yohji just shook his head and smiled.

They were both sitting on the floor in the living room, on opposite sides of the low coffee table with the game board set up between them. They had raided Omi's closet, finding a collection of games. Aya had been so reluctant to choose that Yohji had wondered if he knew how to play any of them. They, meaning Yohji, basically, had settled on a word game and, as he said, Aya had won fairly and with enough flare that Yohji had, at times, felt a bit slow.

Still, he'd managed to get a few more responses out of the redhead, especially when Aya was half distracted trying to piece together his next move. It only fed Yohji's theory that the boy was so quiet due to some training rather than by nature.

As Yohji began to clean up the pieces, he noticed Aya try to stifle a yawn. For all his progresses, Aya was still recovering. He forwent naps now on almost all occasions, but it meant early evenings, at least compared to Yohji's previous habits. He checked his watch to find it was half past ten, definitely Aya's bedtime. Making quick work of the pickup, he stood.

"Come on, time for bed."

Aya nodded, standing with a lithe grace that improved week by week.

They went upstairs together, and Yohji left to brush his teeth, coming back to find Aya buttoning the top of his gray pajamas. He tugged off his own shirt and rooted around for a pair of sleep pants. Normally they'd be lying near the closet, but Aya had gotten into a habit of cleaning, and Yohji found them clean and neatly folded in the drawer.

It was a nice sign of progress, not because Aya had completed a chore without being asked or even asking, but because he had done it out from under Yohji's supervision. The boy was getting better at acting on his own, just being on his own, really, at least within the house. And Yohji was getting better at letting him.

Not that it was easy. He still found himself checking up on the other, rushing in only to find Aya sitting quietly with his book or calmly dusting the things on their dresser.

Yohji shook his head as he pulled on the cotton pants and a white tank top. They were both doing better.

Coming over to sit with Aya on the bed, he took a moment to look at the redhead who, in turn, was studying his hands with that certain pensive air.

"What?" Yohji asked.

Aya just shook his head, no. Yohji sighed, loudly and dramatically, forcing Aya to look up and see his smile. The blonde gestured for him to continue something he hadn't really started, and, after several seconds of silent debate, Aya spoke.

"Do you," he paused, staring at the bedspread now, "Do you know how to play go?"

How long had Aya been pondering that one?

"Yeah. Sort of," Yohji laughed, "I'm not that good."

Aya nodded like this was important information

"Do you?"

Aya nodded, then, when he noticed Yohji was again waiting, "I…I used to play…with my friends."

Mentions of Aya's past were few and far between, but though Yohji was attentive, nothing was added. Getting up to turn off the lights, he looked back to the bed. Aya was sitting there, looking out the window, its open blinds letting in a slatted wash of blue moonlight. He looked lost, younger than he had any right to be.

Yohji went back and sat beside him, not too close.

"Do I get a goodnight kiss?" he asked lightly, more than half afraid Aya would say no.

Violet eyes trained on him.

"You did beat me, after all. I need some kind of consolation."

There was another moment of silence, Aya just looking at him. On the verge of laughing the whole thing off or breaking down and begging (he was increasingly caught between the two, now), Yohji suddenly held very still as Aya moved. One tentative hand took hold of his upper arm, as if to steady its owner, then Aya leaned in to brush Yohji's lips with his own.

The boy pulled back, not too far, and asked quietly, "Are you sure you like me?"

It was earnest and searching and very unsure.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

~tbc~


	96. Follow Me

Chapter Ninety-Six: Follow Me

* * *

Nagi sat on his bed, sorting through books he had already read. He pondered, again, the consequences of asking Crawford a bit of money so he could go buy some new ones, but the man hadn't been in the best of moods over the past week; the last thing Nagi needed was to be on his bad side.

Not that he blamed Crawford for being on edge. Nagi himself was starting to feel anxious, not sure if it was worse or better that he didn't exactly understand what was going on. Two things he knew for sure: they should have been back in Japan weeks ago and Schuldig was messing with his stuff while they were away.

He sighed and tried to put the latter out of his head. It was just that he didn't have many things, and he didn't like anyone touching them. He wanted to get back and assure himself that everything was still properly in place and that the idiot hadn't broken anything.

Of course, this was probably the least of the havoc the redhead and caused in their absence.

Having overheard a few muttered curses from Crawford's makeshift office, Nagi wondered exactly what Schuldig had been into, something that skewed the future a bit, it seemed. Nagi wasn't sure if he wanted that kind of influence; sometimes he thought it would be grand to have such will and sway, and other times he wished he was even less significant that he was.

Turning his mind forcefully away from the subject, he went back to his books. He might have gone out, but Bielefeld had little appeal to him. He missed Paris and, in a way, he even missed the familiarity Japan. They were supposed to be going back, but, within two hours of their departure from Takatori Reiji's office, Crawford had had a vision. An hour later, Takatori called, telling them to go to Germany. From Dresden they were shuffled and led around, ending up in Bielefeld in a small hotel suite, waiting on some mad scientist who refused to wrap up his experiments quickly just to appease his father.

They were to take Masafumi back with them. Nagi didn't like the man, disturbed by the odd things he had seen in the lab and the odd attention the man had given him. And the women. They fawned on the scientist unnaturally, constantly at his side, finding excuses to touch him fetch him things. The little one, Tot, called him Papa, but the looks he directed her way were not that of a father, and they made Nagi slightly ill to think about.

He hoped the women weren't coming to Japan with them.

Looking back to his books, Nagi found the outdated textbook he had bought in a small shop in Paris. Carefully he opened its wrinkled pages and set himself to the task of learning French. The rules came easily, and, he was sure, had he the right teacher, the language would have been simple enough. But he had only himself, and so he made do.

* * *

"Hey, you've got a customer," Yohji called into the greenhouse. Aya looked up, surprised, a tray of seedlings resting in his dirt-brushed hands. Gently he sat it down and tried to wipe off his apron which was also dusted in the deep black of planting soil.

"C'mon," Yohji urged with a smile. Unsure of what was going on, having never had a customer request him and not sure he wanted to set a precedent, he nonetheless followed Yohji through the yard and into the back of the shop. The blonde looked…happy, Aya thought, though he wasn't going to bank on his ability to interpret the emotions of others.

When he stepped into the shop and Yohji moved out of the way, Aya was relieved to find that the customer was Hamami-san. She had Ken's arm and was using it to support herself as she leaned over a window display to touch the slick leaves.

Yohji coughed, grabbing Aya's arm and gently pulling him forward.

"Ah!" Hamami turned. "Get me my book, Hidaka-san," she directed, shifting her hold to Aya's arm. It was a light touch, and he found it only made him a bit uncomfortable. Ken, meanwhile, had gone to fetch what she had left on the counter and came back with a heavy, hardbound book with gold lettering on the front.

"Here." A wrinkled hand took it from Ken, and, with a slight tremor, delivered it into Aya's grasp. "That, my dear, is a book you need to read. All my flowers are in there, excepting one, which I've written into the back."

She snagged Ken's arm again and released Aya so he could thumb through the book. It was old, but not in bad condition, with lots of small print cluttered around black and white drawings of flowers.

"You do read English?" she asked.

He nodded, having barely noted the foreign language. It wasn't difficult, though he wasn't sure how familiar he would be with the more technical terms.

"Good!" The elderly lady smiled brightly. "You keep that until you've satisfied yourself. My eyes aren't up to it anymore, but it's all up here," she pointed to her head, the worn sleeve of her kimono falling back to reveal a thin wrist and wrinkled arm. The joy was contagious, and Yohji and Ken grinned openly.

"Thank you," Aya said, belatedly and not without a hesitant look to Yohji. He wasn't sure how much the other wanted him to say, but the older man just kept smiling.

"You're quite welcome," she returned, "Now, would you mind putting together some yellow roses for me?"

He nodded and, having gone to his table, carefully set the book on its edge. About to go to the cooler, he found Yohji suddenly at his elbow proffering a collection of yellow roses. Settling down in his seat, Aya got out a square of green wrapping and set to work, stopping only once when he felt a strong sensation of being watched. Looking around, he saw the others talking and no one looking in his direction, but the disconcerting feeling lingered.

* * *

"Where did you go?" Farfarello asked, turning on the couch as Schuldig came into the large room and shed his jacket.

"Miss me?" the redhead asked, coming around to sit beside him. He looked distastefully at the new red stain on the green fabric of the sofa, having obviously come from a slash across Farfarello's forearm that was unbandaged. As if to demonstrate, the Irishman pulled a knife out of his vest and prodded the cut with the point until another drip of blood escaped.

"Wrap it up," Schuldig told him.

"Where did you go?"

"That first," he directed. Obediently, the other got up and went to the bathroom to find another roll of bandages. Schuldig took the time to locate the remote and turn on the television. Bradley wasn't there, which meant he didn't have to watch the damn news, and he flipped channels until he found a rather vapid talk show where women tried to discover the fathers of their brats.

When Farfarello came back, it was his turn to make a face, aimed at Shu's choice of entertainment.

"That's inane," he pronounced. Schuldig shrugged. "Where were you?"

"Watching."

"The kitty?"

"Who else?"

The pale man made sat down next to him, too close, and half turned to face him, as he accused, "You didn't take me."

"Had to be inconspicuous."

He seemed to think about that for a minute before flopping back on the couch and resting his head on Schuldig's shoulder.

"Was he happy?"

"Is he supposed to be?" Schuldig wondered.

"No," the other answered, "God won't allow it. Crawford won't let you do that either."

"Shut up."

"Fuck you."

"In your demented little dreams," he returned, as always. As much as he hated to admit it, Farfarello was probably right, and the quavering contentment he had sense from Ran wasn't likely to last. But that was okay, because if the idiot blonde could just get him through this, next it would be Schuldig's turn to try and make the kätzchen happy.

~tbc~


	97. Foster Me

Notes: I'm sorry it's been so long between posts! You may all punish the author appropriately…or inappropriately, as you wish. Pesky reality got in the way for a bit, but I'm back from beneath my rock and will try my utmost to be a bit more reliable in the following weeks. I just hope you lovely, patient readers are still interested!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-Seven: Foster Me

* * *

Aya sat in the living room by himself, wedged into the corner of the chair with his feet tucked up in front of him, Hamami's book open across his knees as he studied it under the light of the lamp.

He hadn't been able to eat supper. Omi had made spaghetti, and something about the look and smell of it turned his stomach to the point he knew better than try to get it down. Yohji had caught him when he put a hand over his mouth, trying not to think about it, and with only a few words, the blonde had let him leave the table despite Omi's protests.

It was, Aya thought, easier to eat what he cooked himself, and he was fortunate that Yohji let him do that.

Yohji.

He couldn't figure the man out, and every time he had thought he had his relationship with the other sorted out, it changed, often dramatically and without warning. This new fascination with kissing, for example. Aya didn't understand it, and he didn't exactly like it.

The actual physicality of it wasn't too unpleasant, but each time the blonde got close like that, it reminded Aya of other things: the closeness of Crawford's body before he beat him, the rough press of Schuldig's lips against his own, the terrible moment of lingering hesitation before he was hurt. But Yohji didn't hurt him. Not yet.

He won't, part of Aya's mind whispered. It was a small, hopeful part, the portion that kept conjuring some ideal world where Aya-chan was awake and no one wanted to hurt either of them. Delusional, he thought. Stupid.

Aya wasn't meant for happiness. He wasn't meant for anything more than pain and abuse. But Yohji…

As if summoned by his thoughts, the blonde wandered through the doorway. He stood for a minute just looking, and Aya couldn't figure out why. Was Yohji thinking of ways to hurt him? No, he didn't think so, but he couldn't think of any other reason for the man to study him like that. Was it because he was so strange? Maybe the other would berate him, remind him of how lucky he was to be treated so well, demand recompense.

But Yohji just smiled and sat down on the couch, not too close.

"Can I get you some dinner, Aya?" he asked.

What? Yohji did that now, too. Asking if he could do things, and then doing them. It was strange and put Aya ill at ease. Shouldn't he be asking for Aya to do things? More things. Not just cooking dinner or…or…

"Aya?" Yohji repeated. Aya just shook his head. "You need to eat. People will think I'm starving you."

"You aren't," he said without thinking. He had to stop that. Speaking too freely was bound to get him in trouble. He ducked his head, an automatic reflex now.

There was a soft chuckle from Yohji.

"You're cute, you know," the blonde said.

"I am not," Aya said without looking up. What a stupid thing to call him. He was weird, a corruption, not…cute.

"Whatever. But you are."

* * *

Yohji watched Aya bow his head further over the large book and decided his attempt at a compliment hadn't gone over that well. He also decided to change the subject.

"So, you can read that?" he asked, pointing to the book and waiting for Aya to look up at him. The boy nodded, clutching it a bit closer as if Yohji would take it away from him. "You read English?"

Again Aya nodded.

"You're smart, aren't you, Aya? Omi said that your school was prestigious. Did you get in because you were smart?"

He was met with a guarded, blank expression, like Aya was trying to figure him out. He sighed, realizing he wasn't going to get the boy to affirm anything.

"Do you read any other languages?"

A hesitant nod.

"Gonna tell me which ones?"

Again with the long looks, calculating, maybe.

"Italian, French, and…German. Not many others."

"Not many?" Yohji half laughed. "How'd you learn all those? At school?"

No, Aya shook his head. Yohji waited, like always, wondering if the boy would pick up the hint and fall into anything like normal conversation.

"Who taught you?" Yohji asked. Aya seemed to think about it.

"I…a tutor. Father hired him."

"Why'd you need a tutor?"

"I don't know," Aya mumbled, and Yohji got the distinct impression that he was making an excuse.

"Come here, Aya. Sit with me," he asked, patting the couch next to him, adding, "Please."

Aya unfolded his legs and stood, book awkwardly in his hands like he didn't want to put it down. Ultimately he did, sitting it cautiously on the coffee table and stepping around the furniture to take a seat on the other end of the couch.

"I won't bite," Yohji said. Aya actually shuddered at the comment, hands coming up to tug at the hem of his shirt. "I'm not going to do anything you're not okay with."

He felt like he was repeating himself, but his student seemed more than a tad possessive of the idea that Yohji would actually harm him, despite two months and many, many instances that proved that theory wrong. Hoping to give him yet another example, and, he easily admitted, reassure himself in the process, Yohji shifted to the middle cushion.

"Okay?" he questioned. Aya looked at him again, some of the trepidation fading under aggravation. Still, if he insisted on doubting Yohji, he was going to have to put up with constant reinforcement. When he realized Yohji wasn't being rhetorical, he nodded.

Yohji shifted again, settling his hip against Aya's, not roughly, not enough to pin him against the arm of the couch. Aya was tense, but, when nothing else happened, he began to relax a bit.

"Okay?" Yohji checked.

"Stop asking," Aya snapped. Yohji grinned, ignoring the subsequent apology as he waited for Aya to calm down again.

Slowly, he reached out to snag one pale hand, tugging it over to his own leg and putting it there. Aya jerked it back, then, after a long breath, put it down again, the light pressure of his palm against Yohji's knee. Still careful and deliberate, Yohji laid his own hand on top of it, threading their fingers together.

* * *

Omi poked his head into the living room to ask the others what they were doing and was caught by surprise to see Yohji jerk his hand quickly away from Aya, a distinctly guilty look on his face as he edged away from the boy.

How close had they been sitting? And what had Yohji been doing?

A quick glance to Aya confirmed nothing, the boy's head down as he reached for the big book he'd been carrying around all day.

* * *

Yohji drug the man up in his weapon, and, suddenly, his vain struggles ceased with one strong tug on the wire. Looking over the man's sagging head, he saw Aya turn away.

"Thanks," he said quickly, hurrying to follow the other out of the building. Aya made swift moves, turning right then left down another hallway. Yohji struggled to remember where they were, where the blueprint had said they should go; he wanted to check Aya's moves, but he couldn't stop to get his baring without losing the other.

Suddenly, Aya stopped. He turned again and shoved Yohji against the wall. Quick on the uptake, the older man flattened himself against the surface, listening. There were footsteps, soft on the carpet of the office hallways, but headed in their direction. He looked at Aya, and purple eyes met his, passing a silent 'ready' but little beyond it.

The footsteps closed in, and then two security guards turned the corner. Yohji snagged one before they even knew the assassins were there. The other tried to draw his gun, but Aya sliced at his arm, sending out a spray of blood as the limb fell unnaturally back without being completely severed. The man screamed, but Aya just turned and jammed his sword deep into the guard's stomach. The man gurgled and fell, and Aya yanked the sword back. He landed sideways on the carpet just as Yohji finished off his own man.

Aya was breathing hard, leaning a little against the wall as he straightened up from wiping his sword on the guard's blue uniform.

"Okay?" Yohji asked.

"Fine," the redhead answered, straightening up. Yohji nodded. They had already finished the mission, taking out more than six guys; it was no surprise Aya was tired.

They exited the building without other incident, crouching behind a wall as it burst into flames, listening to Omi confirm detonation over the comm.

* * *

Sitting in the back of a nondescript rental car, Yohji scooched closer to Aya whose head was resting awkwardly on his shoulder. The boy hadn't been in the car more than ten minutes before he fell asleep.

He caught Ken's stare in the rearview mirror and smiled a bit; the brunette didn't seem to share the sentiment, but soon returned his eyes to the road. This, however, was not accomplished without a sidelong glance at Omi. The younger boy twisted in his seat to look back at them.

"Is he okay?" Omi questioned.

"Yeah, just tired," Yohji said, stroking a hand through crimson hair. Omi followed the movement.

"Yohji-kun…do you, are you…are you interested in Aya-kun?"

"What do you mean?" Yohji returned, instantly on guard.

"I just…he's very young, Yohji-kun. And, you know…it might not be good for him."

"I'm not going to hurt him."

Omi's eyes were doubtful, and he was going to say something else, but Ken hit a bump in the road that jarred Aya awake. He jerked upward, looking around, and quickly moved away from Yohji's side.

"I'm sorry," he said, running a gloved hand over his face.

"It's fine," Yohji said, both to him and to Omi.

~tbc~

Notes: Review to encourage the author to be more punctual…or at least to encourage Yohji in his pursuit.


	98. Figure Me

Notes: Patsch, I'm sorry you found last chapter repetitive (I was trying to establish Yohji's increasing attempts at intimacy with Aya and lead into this one, but maybe that didn't work too well—I'll try harder), and I assure you all that new plot is in the works (next chapter contains a revelation for someone, actually). I always hesitate in making things get better too quickly (or maybe quickly enough) and we all know that I have a habit of lingering; so just poke the author with a stick and I'll shove things along. Thanks for reading everyone!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-Eight: Figure Me

* * *

"Here," Omi said, handing over a large manila envelope that had already been opened.

Sitting on the couch, Yohji reached up to take it. It was heavy, filled with a packet of papers. He pulled them out and tried to decipher what he was looking at. From the chair, Aya looked up a little.

"They're Aya's papers," Omi said. "From the doctor."

Yohji nodded, already flipping through the detailed report of the boy's health that Kritiker had put together. There were certain expected things, diagnosis written in bold near the bottom of the pages, medical jargon that he parsed as he went. Though the boy was labeled as basically fit (belatedly, Yohji thought, since they had been doing missions for almost two weeks), there were certain reservations.

There were hints at malnutrition (recoupable) and digestive issues still to be sorted but not in need of medication. Vitamins were recommended. Recently healed lacerations, fading marks that he could see with his own eyes. Other things, too. There were ribs that had been broken, healed okay but not perfectly. A slight skull fracture that was in a similar state. A small ankle bone that wasn't set quite right and might need to be adjusted if it bothered Aya. Remnants of strains and pulls and beatings, healing and healed. It was amazing Aya had no lasting scars.

His eyes were fine, vision 20/20. His blood work normal. His MRIs regular.

Yohji felt relieved though he hadn't been overly concerned about any of it. Maybe he should have been. They hadn't talked about it.

There were other exams that bothered him more, those traumatizing physical evaluations Aya had suffered through. In those results there was testimony to sexual abuse, tender healed tears that reminded him what else Aya had gone through. He looked away from the paper but was unable to look at the boy, his gaze hovering awkwardly around the coffee table. Yohji didn't like to think about that.

"Can I see?" Aya asked, very quietly.

Surprised by the request, Yohji felt bad that he hadn't offered. Here he was rifling through Aya's medical information (and Omi had obviously been through it before him), and Aya had to ask if he could look.

"Yeah, here," he said, flipping it closed and handing it over. He turned back to Omi who was watching Aya, a sad, searching look on his face. Yohji wondered how much those papers had confirmed for him.

"What time is it?" Yohji asked, mostly for the sake of getting Omi to look at him and away from Aya than for actual information. He was, after all, wearing a watch.

"A little after seven," the other answered, focusing. "Are you guys going out tonight?"

"Yeah, Aya's got practice."

Omi nodded, a vague, distant gesture before he moved out of the room. Yohji's gaze followed him, not particularly liking whatever it was the kid might be thinking, something which undoubtedly involved Aya.

A heavy breath brought his attention back to the redhead who was staring at a page. Getting up, Yohji walked behind the chair to look over Aya's shoulder; the boy stiffened at his presence but didn't move away from him. It was the page on blood work and infectious diseases, and Yohji tried to figure out which section Aya was looking at.

"Which one?" he questioned.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, as if in admission, Aya ran the tip of his finger over a line of bold print: STDs: NONE.

"You were worried," Yohji said, quietly. They hadn't talked about that, not at all, what had happened to Aya before. They had never gotten beyond that one vague admission that Aya had been hurt.

The boy nodded, looking solemn. Unable to resist, Yohji threaded his fingers through an eartail, glad when Aya didn't pull away.

"You can talk to me about it, you know?" Yohji asked.

No, Aya shook his head, fingers brushing along the edge of the collar now.

"We've got to talk about it sometime, Aya."

And though Aya shook his head no again, Yohji had realized that if he wanted any hope of getting anywhere, they did.

* * *

He leaned against the hood of the Seven, cigarette in hand, thinking.

Yohji didn't really want to be thinking about it. He had, in fact, set out determined not to spend the time brooding over Aya, especially after the boy had made it clear that he did not want to talk about it. But they had to. It was, Yohji had realized, the only way Aya was ever going to trust him. The boy needed to tell him what had happened in order to realize that it wasn't going to happen with Yohji.

And, maybe, to realize that Yohji wasn't going to like him any less because of it. He wasn't sure this was even an issue for Aya yet, but it was to him, and Yohji was determined not to let whatever the other had to say affect him in that regard. The bigger problem was how to get Aya to say it.

* * *

Purple eyes regarded him warily.

"Later?" Aya asked, quietly, hesitantly.

"Tomorrow," Yohji replied, not pleased with being put off and certainly not going to leave it at an indefinite later that might never happen. But Aya was tired.

"Yes, Yohji."

* * *

Though he had been eager the night before, as the day wore on, Yohji became increasingly grateful for the reprieve he had granted Aya. There were details to be figured out. First and foremost, where did he intend to have this discussion. He wanted Aya somewhere private (since it wasn't exactly the type of conversation one could conduct at a restaurant), but, at the same time, somewhere the boy would be at least somewhat comfortable.

The bedroom was out for reasons he didn't want to think about. He considered the kitchen table, the site of their former talks, but hesitated since Omi or Ken were likely to come through, and Yohji didn't want to be interrupted on the off chance that he actually succeeded in making Aya talk to him. The odds didn't seem to be in his favor, but he finally decided on the mission room and made plans to waylay the redhead after work and go down there.

As to how to get Aya to open up to him, Yohji found himself at a loss. He couldn't very well sit down and demand the other spell out all the details of what had to be a painful past. But something had to happen. Yohji was quick to admit he was curious, but that was dwarfed by the actual need for Aya to speak about his past. They couldn't ignore it, not when it was obviously haunting him. Besides, there might be details to help save the mysterious sister.

If she could be saved.

Yohji quickly put that thought out of his head. Weiss had had good luck before (with a hell of a lot of bad thrown in between) and he hoped that that would be the case with Aya-chan.

After a bit more consideration, he thought the girl might be an in to conversation with Aya. It was, at least, the best he could come up with. So, armed with this idea and a prayer, he went forth, deciding, en route, not to grab a bottle of tequila from the freezer.

He called that plan B.

* * *

Aya stared uneasily at Yohji as the blonde settled on the couch in the basement room. The lamp on the side table was turned on and it threw odd shadows over his angled features as he leaned forward.

Aya was to the side, settled on the edge of the chair, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, dreading whatever was about to happen. Yohji said he wanted to talk, more specifically, that he wanted to know what had happened to Aya…before.

The younger man didn't want to think about it. He spent so much time trying to avoid it, to shy away from thoughts of the pain and humiliation, from the very real possibilities that Schuldig was checking in on him, that Crawford would want him back. Why on earth did Yohji want to hear about it? There was no pleasure to be derived from this kind of conversation, nor even any crucial information. There was nothing important in what had happened to him.

"Don't look like that," Yohji requested, staring at him above the edge of those dark glasses. "It's not so bad."

Yes, it was. It was terrible.

"I just want to know, Aya. It won't change anything."

Then ,why? Aya bit his lip to keep the question from slipping out. He didn't feel good, already on edge and off balance, and it would take policing not to say something wrong. He didn't want to talk, but he didn't want Yohji to be angry with him either.

"Please," the other asked, looking at him earnestly. "Just try."

There was a long moment of silence, of sitting under that gaze, and Aya realized that Yohji wasn't going to relent. There wasn't going to be that frustrated huff, letting him get away without answering. The blonde had gotten very good at waiting out his indecision, and it was obviously now working in Yohji's favor.

Aya knew he had to say something, but words fled from him. He grappled with it and couldn't find anywhere to start. What did Yohji even want to know? What was there to tell? Aya had done what he had to; there had been consequences. He had failed…

"Aya," Yohji broke through his thoughts, "start from the beginning. When did you meet…"

Now the blonde was searching for words, and Aya rallied a bit. He could say that; hadn't he repeated it a hundred times.

"My master."

Yohji looked like he wanted to disagree, but he didn't.

* * *

For a long, silent minute they stared at each other.

"It might help," Yohji added, squelching the feeling of hesitation at broaching the subject, "It might help us find your sister. We…I need to know."

Purple eyes lingered, fled. Aya's hands tangled with each other in his lap. Then he started talking.

"The explosion…you…I told you about that."

Yohji nodded, leaning back against the couch and determining to listen patiently and quietly for as long as he could.

"After that…after the hospital…he came and took me away. I…I don't know…a house, sort of. I," he tugged at the sleeves of his black sweater, pulling it down over his hands, "I don't know. He said…there was a debt. I…I had to…she, Aya-chan…I had to."

Yohji nodded again. He wanted to tell Aya it was okay now, but he kept his mouth shut. Aya stared at the floor, curling up more in the chair as he talked until his legs were drawn up in front of him.

"He…one of his men…he called him my keeper," a deep breath, and a tug at the collar, "he gave me this, took me away…I…I was his now, my Master's…property. A slave. I…fought…for a while. He…he had to…teach me…things."

Aya pressed his forehead against his knees, his arms wrapped around them now, tucked into himself. He said no more, despite the silence, just breathed deeply like he was trying to calm himself down.

"What things?" Yohji finally asked.

"You know," Aya said flatly. "You already know."

"Please tell me."

"He…he taught me not to talk back…not to…not to fight...to follow the rules. I…I wasn't very good at it."

There might have been sarcasm there, but Aya's voice was so quiet that Yohji wasn't sure.

"He…punished me."

"How?"

Aya lifted his head suddenly to glare at him.

"Why do you want to know that?" the boy asked him angrily.

"I need to know," Yohji returned, calm. He had expected the anger, hoped for it even.

"You need to know what?" Aya snapped. "You need to know what they did to me? Don't you know enough? That they ruined my life, that he took everything from me? Do you need the gory details? Do you need to hear how he beat me with a whip until I bled? How he tied me to his bed and fucked me? Is that what you want to know?"

"Aya…"

"I lived through it, Yohji! I don't want to fucking talk about it!"

"I know you don't, and I get that. But if you want to move past this—"

"They've got my sister. And he could come here any day, any minute, and that's it. I can't…I can't just 'move past it.'"

"Listen to me," Yohji said, reaching without thinking, only to have Aya jerk backwards. The blonde relented the action but pressed on with his thoughts, "You've got to get that idea out of your head. They're not going to come in here, and they're not going to take you back."

Aya said nothing, but his look was more than incredulous.

"Aya, seriously, look where you're living. No one's sneaking in here, at least not without a pretty nasty surprise. And ,even if they did," he sighed at Aya's nod, "even if they did, you could fight them off. You realize that?"

No, Aya shook his head, both hands searching out the collar like he was checking that it was still there.

"Fuck, Aya. What've you been doing these past weeks? Training ,right? Didn't you take out those guys? You're too damn strong to worry about these assholes. If they come here, you kill them."

The look was different now, worried, verging on fear, at least the eyes were.

"None of us would blame you," Yohji hurried to say, trying to ally that fear. "If the house is compromised, Kritiker will be okay with it too. I don't think you have to worry about it, honestly, but if something does happen, you're strong enough to deal with them."

No, Aya shook his head again.

"They're…" he started, stopped, shook his head again.

"What?"

"I can't….they…he…."

Yohji waited, thinking that Aya was much quicker to speak when he was angry.

"They're not normal."

~tbc~

Notes: Review to give Subaru-san some coffee so he can get to work. Bad plot muse, slacking off like that…


	99. Hassle Me

Truant Author's Note: Well, I'm finally back with an update, and forgoing extended explanations, just wanted to let you all know that there's lots of plot in the works for the next chapter!

* * *

Chapter Ninety-Nine: Hassle Me

* * *

Aya thought Yohji would laugh at him, certainly wouldn't believe him, so he chose his words carefully. Or, at least, he tried to.

"They're not normal."

"No shit," the blonde returned.

"I…they're…they have…"

"What?"

"They know things, can do things. My keeper…he…"

How could he tell Yohji that Schuldig read thoughts? It sounded ridiculous even in his own head, but that made it no less true. With effort, Aya kept his eyes on Yohji's and said as calmly as he could manage.

"He can tell what you're thinking."

There was a pause. Yohji sighed.

"Aya, I'm sure it seems like that to you, but he's just a guy. They've made you think this way, and it's not your fault, but you've got to realize they're just people."

Was that true? Aya didn't think so. He could remember the tingling feel of Schuldig entering his mind, the accented voice that spoke to him, the pain he could cause. He remembered being held in place by the boy, Nagi, but not being touched by him. And hadn't he seen them all move so fast?

"You weren't in good shape, Aya. No telling what drugs they were giving you, and all the shit they had to be making you believe. Trust me, they're just men, and you can protect yourself against them."

Yohji got up. He was reaching again, and Aya was busy thinking so he missed the motion until he felt hands on the back of his neck. The collar.

He jerked away, twisting in the seat to face the blonde. No. If he took that off, Schuldig would come and Crawford would hurt her. No.

Yohji must have seen it in his face, because he sighed again.

"Aya," he said softly, "if you don't start believing this, then everything we've done is useless. You're not a slave; you don't have to wear that. Take it off."

"I can't."

* * *

Aya sat alone in the mission room trying to decide.

Not about the collar, he knew well enough to leave that alone. Schuldig had been here once, getting in despite Yohji's assurances that no one could. But…Aya hadn't been well then either. Now, though, could he manage to fight the other off?

No, he didn't think so. He was sure, well, mostly sure, that he wasn't imagining the powers Crawford and Schuldig had. True, he had been drugged from time to time, but, as far as he remembered, not on a regular basis. And Schuldig had known things…or appeared to know things. And he spoke in German…which Aya also knew. Was it real?

He shook his head to clear it, realizing that a headache had started to form.

Yohji wanted him to fight back, and Aya tried to picture a situation where he did that. Yes, there was great satisfaction in the thought of running his sword through Schuldig and especially Crawford, but even the thought made him uncomfortable. It didn't matter if he had imagined part of it, the real fact was that they had his sister. There was no way Aya could fight back, not while Aya-chan was leveled against him.

* * *

Schuldig gasped, trying to smile even as the air was knocked from his lungs. The expression wavered as Crawford slammed him hard, again, against the office wall.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" he asked, smirking in a way he knew infuriated the other. Still, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of being contrite.

"Listen to me, Mastermind," Crawford said coldly, face close to Schuldig's. "If you continue to play this game, I will kill you. You are not as irreplaceable as you seem to think."

That was bullshit. There was no one with anything near his abilities, at least, not as far as he had ever seen. But that didn't mean Bradley couldn't make his life rather miserable.

"If you don't tell me this instant, I will go get him without you."

With shit like that. Well, he certainly couldn't let Bradley get his hands on the kätzchen all by himself.

"He's safe. With friends."

The chilling gold stare demanded he continue, so Schuldig lingered in the pause, faking a cough.

"I found him a nice litter, plenty of other kitties to play with."

It took barely a second, then Crawford's eyes widened in understanding, like something major had just clicked into place. Using his hold on the redhead's collar, he yanked Schuldig forward before throwing him to the floor and kicking him hard in the chest. He paused, seemed to think, then kicked again, the toe of his brown loafer digging hard against Schuldig's sternum. That hurt.

"Get up," Crawford demanded. "We have to fix this."

Green eyes scanned the room as he lay still for a moment longer. Crawford was taking something from his briefcase near the desk, Nagi lingering in the doorway, and Farfarello, closer, crouching over him to brush back his bangs, an odd expression on his face as he leaned close.

"Told you," he whispered.

"Shut up," Schuldig demanded, shoving him away as he sat up. "Back off."

Farfarello just smiled at him.

~tbc~


	100. Hunt Me

Chapter Warnings: NCS, angst

* * *

Chapter One Hundred: Hunt Me

* * *

It was early. The room was still dark, only the barest hint of pre-dawn gray starting to creep through the blinds. It was too early to be awake, so Aya laid still and tried to go back to sleep. He took a few deep breaths, unconsciously matching the rhythm of Yohji's chest as it rose and fell beneath him. It was strange, he thought, how close they slept, but Yohji was warm and it made Aya feel safe.

He didn't want it to. The last thing Aya wanted was to depend on someone. He wanted…he wanted…

Aya realized he didn't know what exactly he wanted. He had very clear notions of things he did not want. He did not want to go back, and he did not want to be beaten or abused, even if he did deserve it and, to a certain extent, felt that it was inevitable. He didn't want to have to give up his sword and the measure of strength it gave him. He didn't want to be forced from the life he had found here, the bright shop, the soft bed, the absence of pain.

But Aya hesitated to want anything, because what good would it do? If he wanted it, it just meant that it could be kept from him. Still, the rebellious part of his psyche kept insisting that there were already things he desired.

He wanted to see Aya-chan.

He wanted to make Yohji happy with him, though the reasons behind that kept shifting.

He wanted—and how he dreaded wanting this—he wanted to believe the blonde when he said Aya could be free.

It was painful, wanting that. Aya knew he didn't deserve it, that he couldn't have it, but something in him cried out each time Yohji told him he wasn't a slave. Yes, it said, that's right. It remembered what it was to be free and demanded he take the chance.

It wasn't that he didn't want to believe what the older man said; part of him wanted desperately to do just that. But the other part of him was so angry at Yohji for even suggesting it. It was dangerous to want anything, and yet, Aya thought he might want to be free. But it was a desire so long suppressed, so long despaired of, that he had nearly forgotten it, until Yohji started waving it in front of his face. Still, he told himself that it didn't matter, reminded himself that his own freedom meant nothing without Aya-chan.

Not that it mattered. Crawford would never let him go.

Turning his thoughts away from the subject, he tried to think of nothing, to drift back into sleep, but there was a strange, vague feeling of trepidation that edged him away from it. Aya tried to shake it off, and though he often felt that way after a nightmare, he couldn't remember having a dream this time; maybe he had just forgotten.

"What's the matter?" Yohji suddenly asked in a voice not clear of sleep.

"Nothing, Yohji. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"What you said…before…I…I…"

He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell Yohji that he wanted.

"Aya?"

"Nothing."

* * *

Yohji glanced over at the redhead. Aya looked good. He had dressed in a pair of trim, light wash jeans and soft, gray sweater that hung, just a little loose, down around his hips. He was piecing together an arrangement of iris as he sat close to the blonde. He had been close all day, quietly trailing behind Yohji. It was eerily similar to those first few days, though Aya didn't seem to be regressing. Yohji couldn't put his finger on it, but the boy had seemed worried all day long.

"Aya," he started, unsure of what he wanted to say, "Is something wrong?"

"I…I…." He shook his head, no, cutting off his own soft words.

"Are you sure?"

Aya nodded. Considering everything, there were bound to be off days. Maybe this was just one of them. There was a tickle of intuition at the back of his mind that told him that wasn't the case, but, after being unable to think of a reason why, Yohji let it go.

* * *

Yohji set down a pot of daisies, causing Aya to start. The blonde shook his head, slightly distressed with how on edge the other was. There was no way Aya could deal with the fangirls.

"Why don't you go out to the greenhouse?" he suggested. "Omi'll be home soon, so we should be fine out here."

Purple eyes widened slightly, and Yohji thought his offer might be rejected, but, ultimately, Aya just nodded his head and went. Still, there was a certain set of his shoulders that said he would rather not. Yohji found himself staring at the door long after it had closed behind the boy, trying to figure out just what was going on.

* * *

Calm down, Aya told himself. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the humid air of the greenhouse, enjoying the smell of the growing things and the peaceful lull. Okay. He was okay. There wasn't any reason he shouldn't be.

Determined to get it together, Aya went to the potting bench and pulled out the notebook in which he had been recording his planting. He was turning pages, trying to decide which seedlings ought to be moved to larger trays, when it happened.

The silence erupted suddenly into a crash, and the green glass of the roof shattered inward. Crystal pieces rained down around him. There was a flash of motion, a streak of white and green and red, and Aya knew. He tried to move away, to run, maybe, but found his left arm caught tight. Without thinking he swung the other, only to find it easily captured and twisted behind him.

"Now, now kätzchen," Schuldig crooned as he drew Aya close to his own body, "play nice."

* * *

Omi was standing behind the register when the beeping started, a soft alert that a house alarm had been compromised. It took him a moment to figure out what alarm had even been set; then he remembered, the greenhouse. From the beginning they had set that one to keep Aya safe.

Had the boy accidentally triggered it? Had the cat?

Shaking his head to dispel the useless questions, Omi looked up and tried to find Yohji in the crowded shop. Quickly he rang up the purchase he was holding, heartbeat quickening as he realized Aya might be in trouble. He wanted to yell for Yohji or to break out in a run, but he couldn't alert the girls. Omi had never made change quicker in his life.

"Come again," he called back at the girl as he squeezed his way through the crowd towards the back door. Suddenly Yohji was beside him, grabbing his arm. Omi tried to shake it off.

"What's wrong?" the blonde questioned.

"Aya!" Omi hissed. "The alarm—"

He didn't get through anymore as Yohji took off, roughly elbowing anyone who got in his way. The girls began to look and chatter, and Ken started making his way up to the front.

"I'm sorry, but we're closing!" Omi yelled. Ken stopped in his tracks and began to herd the girls towards to doors, nodding at their regretful sighs, his eyes lingering on Omi as if trying to find an explanation in his face. Omi just shook his head and held open a door to get the girls gone more quickly.

They shoved the doors closed behind them, and Ken quickly dropped the metal shutters.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Come on!" Omi grabbed his arm, dragging him towards the back. Explanations would have to wait.

* * *

Aya struggled to breathe. He felt his chest tightening in panic, felt his knees threaten to give out on him.

/Easy./ Schuldig pulled him closer as they slipped down the shadowed alley; he forced Aya in front of him, his chest at the boy's back and hand pressed tightly over his mouth. /I've got you./

A car waited, Nagi standing at the door. Aya's heart sank. He fought, just for a second, tried to pull away again only to have Schuldig jerk him roughly back before tossing him through the open door of the towncar.

"Aya!" Yohji shouted as he came to stop in the middle of the empty greenhouse, eyes scanning quickly over the scene. Glass was everywhere; it crunched under his boots as he stalked to the back, thinking, maybe, Aya was crouched down there. Nothing.

Rushing outside, he checked the yard and street—nothing.

"Fuck!"

Where was he? What the hell had happened? Someone had come. How many damn times had he told Aya that it couldn't happen? Yohji hated that he hadn't listened.

"Shit! Where the fuck are you?" he swore as he paced, pulling at his own hair and trying to figure out what to do. The rational part of his mind said he needed to look for clues, and he hurried back inside, but besides the glass and Aya's dropped notebook, there was nothing. The door had been opened, but from the inside, the alarm set off when it opened. There was nothing, no quick lead, no anything. No Aya.

"Damn it!"

"Yohji-kun!" Omi yelled as he skidded to a halt just inside the doorway, Ken nearly running into him. "What happened? Where's Aya?"

"Gone."

"What?"

"He's fucking gone! Somebody took him."

"Where?"

Yohji gave the boy an angry, exasperated look.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be standing here!"

"Who—" Ken started, only to be cut off by Omi.

"The tape!"

Without explanation, the boy turned and ran out of the greenhouse, Ken and Yohji hot on his heels.

* * *

Aya knelt on the floor of the car, trembling as Schuldig used a thick, leather band to tie his hands tightly in front of him. He wanted to run, to scream, to cry out for Yohji to come and help him. He bit back everything, his words and his fear, closing his eyes and praying this was just a nightmare.

* * *

"Nothing," Omi sighed. He jumped as Yohji slammed his hand against the wall to his right. "The camera went out. I don't understand."

"Shit. What're we gonna do?" Ken asked, getting antsy just standing there.

"Get your gear. We're gonna get him back," Yohji stated coldly, anger suddenly suppressed under that cold calm they only saw in mission. For Yohji, that usually preceded some major carnage, and it was enough to make Omi turn around to regard him.

"We don't know where to look," he said, trying to stay calm under the force of Yohji's stare.

"So what do we do? Sit here on our asses while they . . . damnit!"

"Yohji-kun. We need to know where to start," Omi explained. "I'm not saying do nothing. I'm worried too."

Yohji stared, still obviously upset.

"Ken-kun, you go clean up the shop. Yohji-kun, you check out the greenhouse and the yard, look for anything odd and see if you can check the camera. I'll search the computer for anything I can find."

* * *

The car stopped. Aya kept his head down as the door opened. Schuldig climbed out and drug him after, keeping him on his feet and pushing him forward, through a rusted metal door. Aya watched the cement floor was he was pushed across the huge room and against the cinderblock wall.

The metal door shut with a clang that echoed through the warehouse.

Aya closed his eyes, and Schuldig leaned close to brush their lips together.

/Missed you, kätzchen./

"Hate you," Aya replied even though he knew he shouldn't. For a second, nothing happened. He opened his eyes to see Schuldig take a step back, something dark gleaming in his eyes. There was a crack, and it took a moment for Aya to realize the redhead had slapped him, hard, across the face. He tasted blood and realized his lip was split.

He stared into the dim, dusty light of the empty storage building wondering if he was dreaming.

/Get it together/ Schuldig demanded.

What? Aya didn't understand.

/Behave/ the other hissed in his mind /or you'll stay with us. Don't tell him anything. I'm trying to help you here!/

Before Aya could ask what he was talking about, there was the sound of footsteps clicking across the concrete floor, a steady approach. Aya looked up, dreading and knowing at the same time.

Crawford stepped out of the shadows.

Schuldig moved out of the way, leaving Aya leaning against the wall, biting his sore lip as he tried to stay calm even as his body shook with instinctual terror.

Crawford came towards him, so close, barely a foot away. Suddenly, there was new pain as the man punched him in the stomach. Aya doubled over.

"Look at the floor," Crawford said coldly, like it was beyond him to be truly affected by Aya's behavior.

Aya was slammed backwards against the wall, his head rebounding off its hard surface. But now he remembered, keeping his eyes down. He watched as Crawford's pale hand fingered the soft fabric of his sweater.

"Such nice things," he said. "You like them?"

"I don't…"

A hard blow to the side of his head and a snapped, "What?"

"I don't…Master."

* * *

Ken clutched the broom, hating, absolutely hating that he had to sweep out the shop what Aya was out there being put through who knew what. He and the redhead might not be the closest, but Ken didn't want anything to happen to him. Mostly, though, he didn't want to be stuck doing nothing.

* * *

With a soft fwip, Crawford flipped the long switchblade from its cover.

Aya felt his heart, already tight in his chest, try to constrict again, and for a painful second he expected the man to plunge the blade into his chest and be done with it. There was a terrible moment where he longed for that and feared it in the same instant, so that it was almost a relief when Crawford slid the cold blade down the neck of his sweater and began to cut away the fabric.

"Such fine things," he said flatly, "Such a nice owner. Does he take his time stripping you down? Removing these trappings before he uses you?"

Aya didn't answer. He was watching, now, as the knife shredded the gray fabric, letting Crawford's free hand pull it away from his body. Aya didn't want to lose it, but he couldn't think of a single thing he might do to stop the process. Each stray touch of skin on skin made him swallow hard over the urge to cry out.

"Answer me," Crawford demanded, turning the blade now to cut a long gash over Aya's shoulder, not deep, but stinging as it began to bleed.

"He doesn't…Master."

"He will, and you'll be grateful for your training."

No. He wouldn't; Yohji wouldn't…Yohji. Aya's mind latched on to the thought. Yohji had promised to keep him safe, hadn't he? Wouldn't Yohji come now and save him? So much of the time, Aya didn't want to be saved, but he would sacrifice that shredded vestige of pride, would give up almost anything, if Yohji would come now and get him out of this.

A cool hand ran over is bare stomach, making him suck it in and try to back away only to be stopped by the wall, the cinderblocks hard against his bare shoulder blades. Crawford worked to cut away the last of the sweater, leaving him open to the cold air of the warehouse; his nipples tightened and peaked oat the chill and goosebumps raced across his flesh.

What could he do? Adrenaline rushed through him as his body demanded he run, a simplistic need just to get away, but he held himself still. He wanted out, and there was a whispered thought that he could fight, but then there was Aya-chan. So where did that leave him?

Crawford began to shift out of his suit jacket, handing it over to a suddenly close Nagi. The tie followed, and a sick feeling of déjà vu began to build in Aya's stomach. Maybe Crawford saw it on his face, because the man's lips curved a cruel smile. Aya bent his head, looking away from the other's face until a strong hand took hold of his chin and brought it back up. So he shut his eyes as Crawford leaned forward to kiss him, roughly pushing his tongue into Aya's mouth.

* * *

Yohji stood in the greenhouse, feeling the cold air as he looked up, studying the shattered ceiling. Bits of thick, green glass clung to the metal supports, marking a clear point of entry. Bending down, he picked up a large shard, turning it over in his fingers. How the hell had someone broken through that? Why hadn't they heard anything?

* * *

The muscles in his arms stretched uncomfortably as Schuldig pulled Aya's tied hands over his head. They were secured above him, to some pipe or beam. It didn't matter what it was; everything else faded as Aya heard a soft slide of fabric. He knew what was coming. Though he faced the wall now, Aya could see it in his mind's eye, the hard look on Crawford's face as he wrapped the buckled end of his belt around his hand.

There was a moment of heavy silence. Pulled high enough that it was difficult to find purchase on the floor, Aya could do little besides tense his body.

With a crack, leather met skin and his back was laced by a line of pain.

* * *

Omi swore at the screen. He had lost not one but three cameras. Though rarely accessed the two exterior cameras ought to have been recording, but neither were working. He had run a diagnostic only weeks before, and the security system had been operating normally. Maybe it was just a malfunction, but the blonde was beginning to think not.

* * *

Schuldig watched Ran jerk under the rough lashes. The boy's thin body hung, nearly suspended, from a thick pipe running along the wall. Blood was beginning to drip down his back, running slowly from the edges of the red welts left from Crawford's belt.

He didn't like this, someone else touching what was his, but Schuldig clenched his hands and reminded himself why it had to happen. And, despite Oracle's vehemence at correcting the situation, he had, apparently, failed to pick up on one momentous occurrence: Ran had decided to really play with Weiss.

It would cause problems; Schuldig didn't need to see the future to know this, but maybe it would keep Ran together, give him a bit of something to fight with. The boy had been seriously fractured when they had turned him over, and while Crawford might not care if he was broken, Schuldig did. Even if it took Weiss and the blonde schwachsinniger to keep him sane. He could bite back his jealousy for now and plan on retribution later.

Oh, it would be sweet. A smile crept over his lips as he pictured it and remained as he watched Crawford throw the belt aside and unbutton his dress shirt. Ran drew long, hard breaths then seemed to stop breathing altogether as the precog stepped close to press against his bleeding back. His hands reached to unfasten Ran's stained jeans, then up, brushing down the boy's ribs before pushing the fabric down his hips.

"Leave."

* * *

"Anything?" Ken asked from the doorway.

Yohji dropped his spent cigarette to the sidewalk and ground it out under his boot.

* * *

Aya cringed as Crawford whispered to him, breath warm against his ear. He couldn't make the words make sense as a soft hand ran down over his belly. His sucked in his breath again, trying to move imperceptibly away from the touch, but Crawford only pressed harder against his naked body. One hand held his wait with bruising intensity, the other hand pinched at his left nipple, twisting the pale nub until it ached. The hand continued downward, following the line of his hipbone until soft fingers threaded through his pubic hair.

"Mine. You're mine," Crawford told him as his hand moved down to cup Aya's balls; Aya held himself still, barely breathing, trying to avoid punishment to the sensitive area. Crawford's slick tongue traced his ear as the hand tugged suddenly causing Aya's body to jerk in spasmic response. Nails dug in, and Aya's back arched, until finally the long fingers released him, moving up to circle his flaccid penis, working the tender flesh up and down.

No. The word repeated in his head. No, no, no. His mouth opened, but he refused to let it come out.

Teeth sank into his shoulder just as the hand tightened painfully. A soft whine escaped him. Biting on his lip, Aya struggled to keep quiet.

* * *

"Just shut up for a minute!" Yohji demanded. Staring at the alley behind the greenhouse, he tried to piece together the scenario. They had to have come this way.

"I just—"

"I said shut the hell up, Ken!"

* * *

Aya had denied it. Let it be a beating. Let it be a lashing. Let it be anything but that.

Then Crawford's cock pushed up against him, hard and hot against his bottom.

"You deserve this. You want it," Crawford told him, letting go of Aya so he could guide his erection. It brushed insistently over Aya's sensitive entrance. What could he do? Yohji had said…

Where was Yohji?

Crawford entered him in one rough, burning shove. Aya choked on his own breath and bit roughly on his tongue to keep from crying out. Tears stung at his eyes as he tasted blood, but he refused to cry. It had happened, again. Yohji hadn't come, and he wouldn't; Aya had failed him by not fighting. Aya had failed and he deserved this. Now he wouldn't let anyone down by crying over it. But it hurt.

His chest was crushed against the stone wall as Crawford moved against him in rhythmic thrusts, his way soon slicked by Aya's blood. He felt it seep down his leg, felt smooth hands tugging his penis, felt teeth bite at him again, but then the physical sensations began to fade beneath the intense hollowness of failure.

* * *

"We have to start looking," Yohji insisted, leaning over Omi's computer chair as the other studied city maps.

"Where?"

* * *

"What do you want me to do with him?" Schuldig asked.

Crawford finished buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. Taking his crisp jacket from Nagi, he never looked back to Ran.

"Take him down."

"Is he going with us?" Nagi asked quietly.

Crawford just walked away.

He had considered it, taking Ran back, but the boy wasn't a threat, not after this. The pathetic child was wary already, and he would realize that Schwartz would indeed return to collect him if needed. Crawford would let Weiss keep him, let him be a distraction to the group. There was more than a chance that Kritiker would recognize him, but they could do nothing with their limited knowledge. Let them all buzz about while he continued to do the real work.

* * *

Schuldig sat on the hard concrete floor, Ran's head in his lap. He gently touched the boy's bruised face, cast an appreciative eyes down the length of his naked, bruised body. He had lasted through the first beating and the rape, but then Crawford, unsatisfied with his silence, had taken a thick plank to his sides and back, eventually putting him out with a blow to the head.

He could have been a damn bit more delicate in Schuldig's humble opinion.

Running his hand through the boy's hair, he found it slightly sticky with blood. Nothing too serious. Probably a few cracked ribs, some bleeding, maybe a concussion—the standard pain and humiliation designed to keep Ran in his place and liberate them. When the boy woke up, they would have a little chat, then Schuldig would take him back.

He was in no hurry, lingering over the soft touches. Too soon, Ran began to stir, instinctively pulling away.

"Shh, lay still."

He did, but his body was tense now, all the pliant softness lost to wary anticipation. Schuldig ignored it, continuing to stroke his arm.

"I'm sorry he hurt you so badly."

The boy said nothing, and Schuldig began to worm his way inside Ran's mind. It was surprisingly easy compared to late. Once he had sorted out the pain, he encountered the disbelief and uncertainty jumbled with chaotic, uninterpretable messes of shame and regret. There were mixed images of Crawford and himself, interspersed with imagined scenes of the sister and remembered moments with the schwachsinniger.

/If you're good, I'll take you back to him./

Hope, there, small but a definite, bright pulse against the roil of despair.

/Give me a kiss./

He had expected resistance, repulsion even, but when Ran struggled to sit up, it wasn't to pull away. He balanced precariously, turning up his beautiful, bloody face to stare hard at Schuldig who smiled in return.

"A kiss?" he questioned, words slightly slurred. He licked his lips, took a breath that looked painful.

"Yes. Then I'll take you back."

"Go on, then," Ran muttered.

"No, you kiss me. I know you've been practicing," Schuldig purred, stroking the boy's back and making him shudder.

There was something, a tiny flicker of the old, resistant Ran he had so loved to play with, but it was subsumed, quickly, washed away in the memory of what had just happened. Ran, in fact, seemed to lose connection with the present entirely, and it took a shake from Schuldig to get him to focus.

"Now," he demanded, unhappy that Crawford had cost him his fun. Ran wasn't pleasant to play with when he was this out of it.

There was no expression, and Ran leaned in to perfunctorily brush his lips against Schuldig's. The German picked up some unattractive thoughts, the topmost being that this indignity was nothing in comparison, that it cost Ran nothing he hadn't already lost, and that it was worth it to get back to Yohji who would make things alright again.

Schuldig pulled back with a growl, the hand he had held against Ran's hair fisting suddenly to yank on red strands and tilt the boy's head back painfully.

"Where was your protector, Ran? Where was he while your Master beat you? I was here," Schuldig leaned in, bending his head even further back but unable to shake that blank look. "I know, and I still want you. Are you so sure he will?"

"I don't care," Ran said, but it was little more than a strained whisper. And it was a lie.

* * *

Omi and Ken shared a worried look, both concerned about the pacing Yohji behind them.

Without comment, he stopped suddenly and walked out of the room.

"Should I go after him?" Ken asked.

"Wait a minute, then go."

He had to check the greenhouse again. Yohji didn't know precisely why, but he had the sudden impulse to return. His rational mind told him that he had been thorough and would find nothing new, but some compulsion made him walk out just the same, mentally reconstructing the scene as he went, trying to think of what might be triggering him to return.

Pushing open the canvas-covered door, he nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Aya!"

The boy was there, kneeling among the shards of glass, bound and gagged. He wore only his stained jeans and the dark collar; his bare chest was a mess of bruises and there was some blood. But he was alive. Violet eyes trained instantly on Yohji, desperate and sad and pleading.

"God," Yohji breathed, worried and relieved beyond belief. He rushed to Aya's side, kneeling to work the gag out of his mouth. "Are you okay?"

Aya just looked at him while Yohji untied the leather bands, freeing his hands from behind his back. That done, he went to brush back red bangs, only to have the boy flinch from the touch. Aya's cheek was bruised, his lip split and swollen, blood crusted on the left side of his head and neck.

"What happened?" Yohji asked, reaching again with similar results. He wanted to touch Aya, to know he was really there, but used every bit of restraint he had to back off just a little.

"He…" Aya started, his voice dry and incredibly quiet. Those eyes met Yohji's, fell away. "I told you."

"You told me what? Who did this?"

Aya shook his head and winced at the motion, "Master."

"How'd he get you out of here?"

"…"

"Did he knock you out?"

No, Aya shook his head.

Someone had come in and taken the boy away, conscious at that.

"Why didn't you yell for me? For us?" Yohji questioned.

Aya was silent. Standing, Yohji took a step back from the redhead.

"Did you even try to fight?"

Again, Aya said nothing.

Until that moment, Yohji didn't realize how angry he was. Frustration at himself turned quickly into rage that Aya had let himself be taken. The boy was able to fight—Yohji had made sure of it—but he hadn't even tried! He'd walked out f there like some docile puppet without even thinking Yohji might be able to save him or even trying to save himself.

"Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Yohji questioned, his voice rising without his notice. "Can you even imagine how I felt when I came out here and you were gone? No! Because you just gave up and went with the fucker!"

In that moment, Yohji thought Aya deserved each and every bruise he had.

"Do you trust me at all, Aya? Are you even serious about what we're doing, because it seems like it doesn't mean shit to you. Stop trying to fucking please me and get it together! If you don't fight back, then you're never going to be anything else but a slave! Is that what you want?"

* * *

Aya fought to remain upright. He back and chest and head ached, and he couldn't get the room to focus just right. He tried to concentrate, to focus in on what Yohji was yelling, but part of him just didn't want to hear it.

Yohji was angry. Aya should have fought. But how could he when Aya-chan was held over him?

He would never be able to protect her if he couldn't even manage to protect himself.

Still, he had thought, stupidly, that Yohji would make it better. He had held on to that tenuous thread, let it sustain him through the torment his Master enacted. The pain was nothing, the humiliation was nothing, as long as he could get back to Yohji. Yohji, who saw him as something beyond a body to be manipulated and abused, who had taken him in and taught him how to start a kind of life, who had made him hope. Yohji would make it right again.

But now the blonde was yelling at him, angry and with every right to be. Aya was such a failure. Useless. But he had hoped Yohji would help him because the blonde said he was more.

"…you're never going to be anything else but a slave!"

The fragile hope that he had held on to shattered at those words. Aya felt it in his chest like a tangible thing, and, freed, despair rushed up to choke him. If Yohji, the only person who thought he was anything, was condemning him, then it was so.

Aya wanted to die. To give it up and let the pain have him. But he couldn't move. All he could manage was lower his head, hoping Yohji wouldn't see him cry.

~tbc~


End file.
